Marjorie Farrel

by Miss Ware's Refusal

  His hopeful moods were giving way more and more to the despairing realization that his sight would not return. He seemed to be slipping down into an interior darkness that seemed an extension of the physical lack of light. He felt half-asleep at times. The reading and conversation with Miss Ware woke him up, but only temporarily. Somehow he knew that to be awake would mean facing the painful reality of his life. He could find no good reason to do that, so he used sarcasm to protect himself, discovering within unknown reserves of a cold, bitter pride.

  These he drew upon now. Judith felt almost physically chilled by his withdrawal, and his transformation from someone who resembled the old Simon into the marble statue before her.

  “This has been an odd conversation, Miss Ware. I trust we will stay more with our respective roles of reader and listener. Until next time, then,” and Simon rang the bell next to him.

  “Yes, your grace,” Judith said, taken aback by his abrupt dismissal. “I will see you on Thursday.”

  “Would that I could say the same, Miss Ware. Who knows what charms I am deprived of. Good day.”

  Judith flushed with embarrassment, stammered an apology for her careless phrasing, and Simon waved her away.

  Chapter 13

  Judith hailed a hackney and directed it to Clarges Street, for she was to visit Barbara and take luncheon with her. She had originally planned to walk, but Simon’s abruptness had hurt and she was glad of the privacy of the cab for a few minutes to compose herself. She was sure she understood his sudden withdrawals, but it did not make it easier to be the recipient.

  When they reached the Stanleys’, Judith was calmer and looking forward to the opportunity of telling Barbara about her first days as a reader. She was shown into the morning room, where Barbara joined her almost immediately. Barbara was experiencing that wonderful combination of calmness and strength that is the result of creative work, having just wrestled with a difficult piece of Mozart and won. Judith immediately began to relax in her presence, but not before Barbara noticed her pale face and red eyes.

  “Did your second morning with Simon not go as well?” she asked.

  “On the whole it went very well, Barbara. We had a discussion of Mr. Blake that reminded me of our Christmas at Ashurst. Simon seemed almost himself for a few minutes. But then something happens—he opens up and then very suddenly closes himself off. I know it is because of his coming to terms with his blindness—or, rather, not coming to terms with it—but it is still difficult to be on the receiving end of an unwarranted hostility.”

  Barbara nodded sympathetically. “I am sure even a little openness is a good sign, Judith. I hope you can overlook the coldness, for I think your being there is a first step in Simon’s return to normal.”

  “Tell me what your plans are for this afternoon, Barbara, for I confess that if you are bent on shopping, I will come with you, just to cheer myself.”

  “I do need a pair of gloves, for we are attending the Stantons’ ball tonight. Would you come with me, Judith?”

  “I would be delighted. A little sifting through the scarves and stockings at the Pantheon is just what I need after this morning. And later you can tell me all the gossip so I am completely sunk into frivolity. I won’t know anyone, of course, but I will enjoy the scandals just the same.”

  “The only scandal is likely to be Lady Diana’s dancing exclusively with Dev,” Barbara said. “Yet I should not be so catty. After all, I had always liked her before this year. She does not set out to steal other women’s beaux. They just seem to fall at her feet naturally.”

  Judith was not sure how to respond. From what Barbara had already told her, the viscount had certainly never been a beau, so that Diana could hardly be accused of stealing him. But she could sympathize with her friend, for caring about someone did seem to make one illogically believe in or hope for a returned affection, and to watch the person one loved with another was certainly painful.

  “I am sure from what you have told me Lady Diana is only humoring the viscount. If it is indeed an infatuation, she could hardly ignore him or treat him coldly, unless she had no heart at all.”

  “Do you think so?” Barbara asked eagerly. “I keep hoping that, but then that could be self-deception.”

  “I am sure that it is so,” Judith said. What she was not so sure of was whether Dev would ever see Barbara as anything but a friend or a younger sister. Their relationship seemed to be too long-standing and familiar to be the sort that developed into a romance. But that was something Barbara could only discover for herself. Judith could sympathize with Barbara, for it hurt to discover that Simon had no memory of their easy companionship and few moments of intimacy at Ashurst. No inappropriate romantic fantasies had been entertained by the duke. He had gone off heart-whole, while Judith had developed a tendre for him. She had soothed herself to sleep after a particularly rough day with her charges by imagining what life might be like when she at last reached London. And the Duke of Sutton somehow figured in many of them. She would meet him by chance in the street and he would recognize her immediately. Or they would meet as dinner guests of the Stanleys, and he would invite her to a small gathering at his house ...

  Judith had never met any men who had aroused the same feelings. It had therefore been rather easy to imagine herself an independent young woman who had no desire to settle for a convenient marriage. After meeting Simon, however, she had begun to want something that she was barely able to define. She was even afraid to attempt to define it, for she suspected it was something few men and fewer women were able to have: a union not only for the purpose of creating children, but one that created for oneself the opportunity for affection and passion. “I was surely born in the wrong time,” she would say to herself as she pushed away her fantasies before they developed further, before they took her into Simon’s arms.

  She shook herself out of her musings and, to rally Barbara’s spirits, said, “Come, let us off to luncheon and then the Bazaar. Let us forget all men and their inability to appreciate the fine women under their noses, and revel in bargains.”

  Barbara was amused by the picture of her usually unfrivolous friend rummaging around silk stockings and scarves, and decided she must encourage any sign of willingness in Judith to indulge in activity “normal” for young ladies. At least she had a social life to counteract her tendency to pull too far back from society.

  But Judith could too easily become isolated. And so they both went off to an afternoon of giggling and gossiping and wild extravagance on Barbara’s part and what felt to Judith like wild expenditure on hers. One pair of gloves to Barbara’s three, a pair of cotton stockings instead of silk, and the largest but most treasured purchase, an Indian scarf shot through with gold thread that had been greatly reduced due to some small imperfections.

  Chapter 14

  While the Stanleys were busy with the Little Season, Simon found himself sinking deeper into a frozen despair. He had been restless after Judith’s second visit and found himself, for the first time in months, wanting to be outside and involved in some vigorous form of exercise. Instead of ringing for Cranston, he got up from the sofa, intending to find his own way to the door, and tripped over the coal scuttle, which had been moved by the parlormaid to light the fire that morning and not replaced. The contents spilled all over the carpet, and Simon ended up on his hands and knees, his clean breeches smudged with soot and his hands covered with ashes. A few weeks ago, a more hopeful Simon might have laughed at himself. He had no sense of the ridiculous left. He felt humiliated and helpless. He stood up and grabbed for the back of the sofa, unwilling to move again in any direction. He managed to find his bell and rang for Cranston, who, when he saw what had happened, moved quickly toward the duke, uttering solicitous phrases, which further fueled Simon’s rage.

  “Who is the downstairs parlormaid?”

  “Betty, your grace.”

  “Give Betty her notice immediately. I cannot tolerate such carelessness.’’

  �
��Yes, your grace.” Cranston did not even think of asking the duke to reconsider. He was not a particularly perceptive man, but he knew that, at the moment, the employer whom the servants knew and loved was unreachable. Instead, there stood a man whose pride, so rarely in evidence, had been deeply wounded. Simon, who had been respected as an athlete and envied for his grace on the dance floor, was unable to move around his own home without tripping over something. He was paralyzed by fear of ridicule as well as injury. He felt eternally exposed, like a small child who has done something wrong and waits to be punished.

  It was this fear of being exposed and not even knowing to whom one was exposed that kept him still. And in his stillness he could hear a humming, which grew more insistent and sounded like the shells that had fallen like hail and flattened the shoulder-high rye fields of Belgium.

  “Your grace, may I take you to your room to change?” Cranston had been repeating this query several times before he finally penetrated Simon’s withdrawal. Simon came back to himself, realizing that the smell of burned ashes was not from a battlefield, but from his own hands and knees.

  “Yes, Cranston, you can take me up this time. I am afraid of what other havoc I might wreak should I try it on my own.’’

  * * * *

  When Cranston had settled Simon in his room and laid out clean clothes for him, he went down and knocked at Francis’ door.

  “Come in,” Francis said. “What happened? I heard the noise, but you seemed to be in control.”

  “The duke did not ring for anyone. I think he was going into luncheon on his own, when he tripped over the coal scuttle.”

  “I thought all the maids understood that everything must be in place in order for the duke to have any measure of independence?”

  “They do understand, Mr. Bolton. But Betty must have forgotten to move it back after she laid the fire.” He paused. “The duke gave me orders to sack Betty. Should I tell her, or will you, sir?”

  Francis and the butler exchanged looks. “I do not know what to say, Cranston. We both know that under different circumstances the duke would never have given such orders. And yet I do not want to take any more responsibility from him. He has given over so much, both of necessity and otherwise, that I hate to go against his authority. Perhaps if I speak to him later to discuss his order, he may reconsider. Say nothing to Betty until I’ve spoken to the duke.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bolton.”

  Francis waited until later that afternoon to approach Simon, who, having changed, refused any luncheon and had been sitting in the morning room, drinking brandy. Francis knocked, although the door was open, and Simon turned slowly.

  “It is Francis, your grace.”

  “Ah, Francis ... Come to determine what else the duke has collided with today?” Simon’s tone was different: less sarcastic, but more resigned. Francis looked at Simon’s strong hands as they held the brandy glass in front of him. There was a decanter and another glass on the table next to him, and he reached slowly and carefully for it, holding his finger in the glass as he poured to feel the level of the liquid. He held it out in Francis’ direction.

  “You see, Francis? If I confine my activity to sitting and drinking, I should do all right. Sit down, man. You must need to get a little drunk yourself. I have certainly kept you busy these last few months.”

  Francis reached out and took the glass from Simon. His fingers brushed the duke’s and he could feel them shaking. All of a sudden he wanted to put his arm around him, as he would have done with his own brother. As though sensing this, Simon drew back.

  Francis sat down opposite the duke. “Your grace, Cranston tells me you wish to have Betty dismissed. Did you want me to give her the usual month’s wages?”

  “What? Not done yet?”

  “No, your grace.”

  “Well,” sighed Simon, “that is just as well. Why should she suffer because of my helplessness? I overreacted this morning.”

  “I am happy you have reconsidered. Betty begged me to give you her apologies. Your servants care for you a great deal, your grace.”

  “Do they? I can’t imagine why. I treat them no differently than most employers.”

  “It is not how you deal with them, although that is most generously, but who you are. All your staff wish you well.” Francis was afraid to say more. The brandy had relaxed the duke, and some barrier was down. Francis stood up and placed his almost-untasted brandy on the table. He turned to go, and without thinking, he placed his hand on the duke’s shoulder, attempting to convey his own affection and sympathy. He let it rest there for a moment and then turned quietly and left.

  Simon sat still for a moment and then lifted his glass toward the door, as though in acknowledgment.

  * * * *

  The next day found Simon in the same mood: having at last given up hope, he was no longer placing the same barriers of irony between himself and others. He was more obviously hopeless, but also, in a strange way, more open and receptive, for hopelessness needs no protection. When Judith walked into the library, she immediately sensed the difference. There was no edge to the duke’s voice when he greeted her.

  “Do you wish to continue with poetry, your grace?”

  “I will leave it up to you, Miss Ware. I have no strong feelings one way or another these days.”

  Judith began to search the shelves again. “I see you have Clarissa right next to Tom Jones,” she said teasingly. “I am quite sure Mr. Richardson would not approve! Mr. Fielding would appreciate the irony, however!”

  “Have you read both novels, then?” asked Simon.

  “Yes.”

  “And which did you prefer?”

  “Mr. Fielding’s, of course,” Judith answered without hesitation. “I find Mr. Richardson’s heroines to be self-servingly virtuous, and in the case of Clarissa, quite morbid.”

  “You would not, I take it, write letters upon your own coffin in the event of being, ah, ravished, Miss Ware?”

  “And what a poor-spirited woman she was, to be sure.” Judith laughed. “And Richardson is so tantalizing in leading up to the seduction scene that I suspect him of wanting to titillate the reader’s sensibilities. Fielding is a breath of fresh air in comparison,” declared Judith, quite forgetting they were discussing subjects not considered quite the thing for young ladies.

  She turned back to the shelves and said, “I see that you have several of Miss Austen’s works. Have you read them all? Much as I admire Sophy Western, I find myself more sympathetic to women like Elizabeth Bennet.’’

  “I am not acquainted with Miss Bennet.”

  “Of Pride and Prejudice? You have not read it? It is not her latest, but if it is new to you, I would enjoy introducing you to the Bennets, your grace. It is not an excessively long novel, and we should be able to finish it in a few weeks.”

  “As I said before, Miss Ware, I will go along with whatever you prefer. I have enjoyed Miss Austen in the past, and if you recommend this one, I will trust your judgment.”

  “Then let us begin, and I hope I can do justice to Eliza.”

  Perhaps because Simon and Judith were more familiar with each other, perhaps because of Simon’s new mood, the next few reading days fell into a comfortable pattern. Judith would arrive and almost immediately open to the page they had ended on, and she and Simon would enter again into the life of the Bennets. They laughed together over the absurdities of Mrs. Bennet and argued in quite a friendly way over Darcy. Was he indeed insufferably high-handed in his treatment of Bingley and Jane—Judith thought so—or was he merely honest and candid in his appraisal of the Bennet family? Simon defended him stoutly.

  “After all, he said nothing about them that Elizabeth did not know herself.”

  “But it is one thing to criticize your own family—quite another for an outsider to do it.”

  “Would you have refused him, then?” asked Simon as they came to the end of Volume Two.

  “Yes. He gave her no indication of his feelings for her.
And to begin a proposal by stating how hard he had fought his inclination ... !”

  “It seems to me,” Simon said, “that Darcy’s fault is one shared by many of my sex: the inability to put into fine words one’s deepest feelings. And women seem to value words somewhat more than one’s actions.”

  “There is some truth in what you say, your grace. I place more importance on friendships where I am able to utter my deepest thoughts, and tend to undervalue those who demonstrate their care in more practical ways. But do you not think that there is nothing more desirable than expressing oneself freely and without fear?”

  “Do you realize, Miss Ware, our conversations range over subjects not generally discussed between men and women? Are you like this with everyone?”

  “Oh, no, your grace. I can be quite insipid and conventional when I need to be. I generally speak my mind only where I feel safe.”

  “Safe? And do I seem safe?” There was an edge to Simon’s voice that had not been there for days. “Does my blindness make me innocuous, then?”

  “Your grace, no one looking at you could forget you are a man, and a handsome, vital one, despite your blindness. You no longer have the advantage of seeing yourself in the glass, so perhaps it is easy to doubt your attractiveness. Even as I spoke, I was marveling that I could speak so here. But by safe, I mean, able to be myself. Perhaps your blindness does have something to do with it,” Judith said hesitantly. “Because you cannot see me, I do not have to worry about how I look. Women are always being seen and having to see ourselves with others’ eyes. When I walk in here, I know if I express myself openly, you are not thinking either: She is quite beautiful, too bad she is a bluestocking, or the reverse: How boring, a plain, bookish young woman. I feel that you hear me first, and my beauty or lack of it cannot get in the way. I am sorry if this sounds like I am pleased that you are blind. Maybe ‘safe’ is not the right word? Maybe I feel equal?”