by Clara Barley
Thankfully after just a week he leaves again, seemingly keen to get back down to London for business. He seems bored by life here and anxious to return to his gentlemen’s clubs. He tells us he has seen boxing in the capital and is supporting one of the fighters. Later, Elizabeth reassures me he will be gone for a month this time. It takes a few days for us to really believe he is gone and not jump at every opening door, but slowly we relax, the children brighten, the servants are less skittish and visitors begin to arrive again.
For every happiness, God gives unhappiness. As if each pleasure must be paid for. The more pleasure taken, the more punishment received. She tells me she is happy with the ratio of time with just her and the children and occasional visitors against the time he is home and is, as she says, demanding. I wonder how she can suffer it. Any time my face reveals my true thoughts – why on God’s Earth did you marry him? – she tuts at me and says I know, I know, I should have listened to you and John. Then she looks at the three children and we both realise they are worth every suffering a person could endure.
Another few weeks pass and I feel settled, ready to stay for a long time, perhaps forever. I have my room set up as I like it with items from home, and more of my clothes have arrived from Crow Nest and some of my books for Elizabeth. We spoil ourselves and buy a copy of a book each, so we can read them at the same time and pause and comment and discuss each chapter. We are inseparable. She is my best friend, and how I could ever be apart from her again I do not know. I will stay here and be part of their lives and watch these children grow, even if it means having to stand by when Sutherland strides in and, as Elizabeth says, asserts that he is the man of the house.
He is home again. He does not like me. He tries to belittle me in front of the children, far too young to care, but it hurts me. I wonder what it will be like when they are older? Will they agree with their father that I am meek and should have wed and am, as he says, selfish to sit on a fortune and not share it with a worthy man and children of my own? I spend some of it on Elizabeth and the children in secret. We tell him all the new books, threads and matching shawls were mine already, but one day he sees a bill in amongst Elizabeth’s letters which he opens and reads and shouts at us both as if we are mere children. I say it is my money to spend as I choose and he throws one of the books, which I was only halfway through reading, into the fire. I notice he is wearing a new waistcoat and in a moment of boldness comment that we have our books from my half of the Walker estate whilst he has his waistcoat from Elizabeth’s. I can see him boil inside and without a word he seizes Elizabeth roughly and takes her upstairs. I sit and wait anxiously with the children for what seems like a lifetime for her to return.
We promise each other we will be more secretive in future and I swear to her I will never answer back to him again. What has my dear Elizabeth ever done to deserve this? I realise that if I stay here there will be no end to this, his coming and going. He already treats me with contempt as if I am his second wife, as if he can treat me just like her and try to control me, ignoring that I am a guest and have as much wealth and probably more status than him. He sees me just as a woman, beneath him in all ways.
If I remain here, I will be accepting of him just as Elizbeth was so innocently five years ago. Despite vowing to never marry and managing without it thus far, to live here with my sister would be as good as marrying Sutherland myself. She is trapped. I realise I should take heed of my own warning and that if John were alive, he too would say the same. My presence here may alleviate her suffering while he is away but cannot solve it and may make it worse if he resents us. My poor sister is legally bound to him forever and he can do with her as he pleases. He may have one Walker in his clutches, but he shall not have me too. I will not let him decide my fate as I am still free.
He leaves again and thankfully is gone for two months, during which time Elizabeth realises she is with child again.
Chapter Fourteen
Winter, 1833: A journey overseas and a surprise reunion
Miss Lister
I leave Mariana full of discontent. How she vexes me! Why are women so complicated? They fill me with half-truths and suggestions and never a plain answer, and I always get hurt. Mariana will not leave Charles but I cannot have an affair with her, so I am once again single and left waiting for him to die. I should orchestrate a need for him to climb up a tree during a shoot.
I had come all the way over the country, far out of my way heading to London, in the hope of either an ending and a goodbye or a reunion and a new beginning, and at least some pleasure. I had left Miss Walker behind and now want to leave Mariana, thus freeing me up for new adventures and diary pages to fill with life in London, Paris and beyond.
Instead my mind races and I wonder if Miss Walker is succumbed to the same longing for a child as Mariana? Is that what created such indecision that she would even consider the bastard Mr Ainsworth, purely for the child he could offer her? Is the sad truth of it that I can never truly satisfy either of them without impregnating them? What a pair they make! I should find some orphans, scrub them up and present them one each with a bow on top. Give them a better life of smothering mothers’ love. Girls, definitely girls for them both.
Now free of these two women and some of the guilt over a man’s death, the city awaits with better, more constant friends than those I leave behind. Once in London I visit my aristocratic friends, including Vere and her new baby. She seems happier than I ever knew her to be when we were younger and single, out and about in society. She was always awaiting marriage and the life she now has. Her whole existence was centred on it. I was just a companion, a distraction for her while she waited, and then she secured a husband, became a Lady and now has a perfect baby, which even I think is charming.
Have I been delusional all these years, all my life, that a woman could ever be satisfied with me? That I alone would be enough? Just my love, all of it, a dedication of my life to theirs, a marriage even, security, the freedom to be themselves, nothing more and nothing less? Will they become full of regrets with hindsight, as Miss Walker may be in another ten years when she too may be childless still? By then will it be too late? It is too late for Mariana, it is too late for both of them, for they have broken my heart and chosen something that does not exist over any happiness I could give them, and the result is we are all unhappy. Not one of us has taken a gamble and won.
After a few weeks in London I am left feeling inadequate. After all my visits, it becomes clear that I have nothing to share with my friends, I have achieved nothing this past year. I talk of my plans for improvements to Shibden but nothing has happened yet, and without Miss Walker I’ll barely have the funds. I talk of future travel but what of it? I have not achieved anything, it is all just talk. They are not interested in my coal mines and Halifax politics; it is just a small town they’ve never seen in the inconsequential North, without a gallery or museum to its name. I feel lowly in their company.
I wait in London for my aunt and Marian to agree to visit but they do not. They prattle on in their letters filled with excuses. I send a note to Marian to say I will wait two more days to hear from her and should very much like her to accompany me to Paris. I wait three days and receive no reply, so book myself onto the crossing and head down to the coast without her. Why will she not come? I could do with some company, even hers. She needs to leave Shibden and Halifax some time or other. I wonder if perhaps she has met someone in my absence? Or is that rather far-fetched? I realise it was ten years ago that Marian and Father last came to Paris. My memory may not be perfect but I’m sure we enjoyed ourselves. If only I had my diary from the time to consult – but they are all safely tucked away back at Shibden.
I immerse myself in travel; it is my only pleasure left, it seems. I arrive in Paris and stay in rooms I have used before and re-visit my familiar haunts. I walk over the grand bridges, go to the galleries and museums and marvel at the peculiarities deem
ed worthy of immortality, of reflecting cultures which are now lost, of reminding us of the Earth’s journey through time and how fleeting our own existence is. I eat and drink more than my fill and buy gifts to send back to Aunt and Marian to show them what they are missing. A rare good fortune crosses my path as an old acquaintance introduces me to a lady from the Danish Court who invites me to Copenhagen. I do not hesitate to accept her offer. I will be an English novelty for her to show off to her friends, no doubt. The next moment we are on a ship again and I am presented at the Danish Court!
It is enjoyable but solitary in Denmark. I do not speak the language well and being an English novelty leaves me feeling disheartened. I am not heard of. If only I had a title! ‘Miss’ only gives away my singleness. I dream of introducing myself as Doctor Lister, but it is just that: a dream. I am introduced to so many people, but which of them will I ever really know, will ever know me? Which of them could become part of my life forever?
At parties and dinners I talk with ladies whose English is clear and crisp, and they struggle to understand me. Though I’ve spent my life avoiding a Yorkshire accent, it creeps in at the corners and muffles some of my words; I must work hard to enunciate, my humour is lost to them and I seem dull and uneducated. I can see them comment on my clothing which feels well-worn and shabby next to theirs and even when I wear a new dress to attend Court, one which is not black, a fact which somewhat pains me but was worth a try, I still feel an outsider; even in beige.
I smile at women who would normally come to talk and raise a glass with me, intrigued by an English lady – but those younger than me do not seem to be interested. I stare at my reflection and I seem older, more tired, less alive. No wonder I have not met a lover here; I am no longer in my twenties. I am an old spinster, past her prime, older than the mothers of some of the girls I like the look of, and they all ask me, where is my husband? Am I a widow? They do not understand I have chosen this life, that I may have more interest in them than they can imagine, that I could give them more pleasure than they could dream of or will ever receive from their husbands. I have wasted my attractive years courting the wrong women and am now too old for those available. If only one of our York set had been right for me. If only Mariana… and I go over the same old ground. Reminiscing and regretting what could have been and never was to be. What use is regret? I cannot change anything.
There are so many paths in life we make for ourselves, but the two vital ones, our status and our love, are ordained for us. We are born as we are born, into whatever form God deems us worthy of. We are teased with and denied love regardless of our own capacity to love and be loved. Those who are most deserving of love seem least likely to be rewarded with it.
You cannot choose when and whom you love. Miss Walker treated it as a practical decision she needed to make, but when true love occurs, surely there is no decision? Just two people drawn together, whether the situation is right or wrong, whether their sex is a match or not; where there is love, true love, it must be so.
My money runs low as this extravagant trip and fine rooms and my new dress have been costly, and my diary reads woefully despite the foreign shores and new experiences. I feel as if I have seen it all before. I am not excited by it. Perhaps I need to go farther afield to really interest me again, avoid these modern cities which all seem similar to each other, with the same sorts of restaurants, theatres, dance halls, hotels; the carriages are the same, even fashions are similar and still fail to interest me.
I feel like a cork floating on the surface of the sea, unanchored, directionless; I can no longer see the coastline. I no longer know which way is home.
Would it be different if I were not alone? Would this be better if I had someone to share it with? It seems I am collecting experiences just to fill my diary, which may never be read, or shared, or appreciated. I long for someone to join me, not just for this trip, but for my life. If I am not to be blessed with love, then surely I cannot also be cursed to be left alone for the rest of my life as well? I need a companion.
Miss Walker
Like a ghost that will not leave me in peace, Mr Ainsworth rears his ugly head again. He has the audacity to write to my brother-in-law, the equally intolerable Sutherland, recommending he suggest I take him up on his proposal. The snake! Of course, both my sister and Sutherland are naive about him and think it a wonderful idea, but the letter, and Sutherland’s menacing idea to read it aloud at dinner with guests, makes me flee from the room. Men are so cruel, doubly so Mr Ainsworth and Sutherland! Where can I go in the world to be protected from them, away from their gaze and meddling intentions?
My sister knows there is more to my reaction. She does not press the matter, but a week passes before Sutherland gives us any privacy. Finally, with the children in bed and the two of us alone, I tell my sister what happened when I was seventeen. When I told Miss Lister she was angry, but she did not know me at that time; for my sister, it brings back memories and explains why she had to see me in such a state. She tells me I should have told her, that she would have understood, she would have protected me, and after much apologising and sobbing, we swear to tell each other everything from now on. After imagining what has gone on these last five years in this house, we are up all night as she tells me what it has been like; nothing is secret between us any more. Except, of course, my true relations with Miss Lister. For why need I tell her of that? Miss Lister is gone from my life forever.
Sutherland harks on about the proposal until we bravely tell him that Mr Ainsworth was indiscreet when he was married. Sutherland does not look up from his plate. I tell him Ainsworth has no money of his own. Sutherland just grunts, the irony no doubt lost on him. My sister then states the case, which was our plan to tell him all along, that if I were to remain unmarried, my half of the estate will go to his children in due course. Sutherland perks up at this thought and looks at me for a while. He says, you really do not want to marry do you, little Walker? I meet his gaze and firmly reply that I do not. A few days later, he tells us he has sent a letter to Mr Ainsworth and that we will not hear from him again. I dread to think what he wrote of me.
The feeling in the house grows ever more intolerable. I love my sister and the children dearly, but my nerves are in shreds and I jump at every sound. He comes and goes more often now and treats me as another wife or servant, just as I thought he would. He barks at me to move things, fetch things, pour tea, pick up or quieten a child. He comments on my clothing and whether I look pale, which is most of the time. He tells us to leave him alone and then to keep him company. He grunts that he hopes the next child is another boy, for he does not want a houseful of women getting under his feet. I do not want to leave Elizabeth, especially as she’s having another child, but after ten months with them, hoping and hoping that it would work out, she cuts me free.
One day, after two weeks in his ominous presence, never a moment alone with each other, I open my book and find a note: ‘Go home to C. N. and we will visit you soon. I’ve loved having you here these months, but he was not your choosing, you should not suffer, one of us should be free. I love you, E’.
Miss Lister
I rise each day and walk the streets of Copenhagen as if they will give me an answer, or at least another chance meeting to lead me on to my next adventure. I turn the pages of an atlas and plot routes, but never choose one to follow. I decline invitations as I realise I have become a burden of a guest with little to say for myself.
Thankfully, after ten long months a letter arrives, which, although bad news, draws me from my stalemate and forces my next move. Marian’s letter had been sent ten days before. Aunt is ill and I should return. I need no excuse and suddenly fall to action, and within the day I am on the coach heading back to the port. It will be a long journey home but at least I am heading somewhere, even though it is backwards. I am moving again and the journey and worry for my aunt occupy my mind. After all, in my present lonely state of
mind, I might as well try to make a life for myself back in Shibden rather than be stuck in a rut here.
Miss Walker
We part with sorrow; all I want is for her to come with me, more than anything in the world, but she cannot leave him. She says she will try to visit often with the children, without him. Crow Nest will be our sanctuary. I have the address of a close friend of hers whom she visits each week to whom I can send more personal letters, and she will post me letters from Elizabeth without Sutherland reading them first. We can write freely again at least.
I cry and cry and thank God that he isn’t here to see it. I leave when he is away as he may object to seeing his children’s inheritance leave when he thought he had gained control over the entire Walker clan.
I cry all the long journey home, thinking of how it could have been, the sorrow of being away from her, the children and what she endures. But she is right. I should go home again to Crow Nest and try to make some life for myself there.
Miss Lister
I arrive back in December, just before Christmas. They are surprised to see me and after all my worrying and weeks at sea in stormy weather, my aunt is as fit as a fiddle. Marian apologises profusely – her second letter of reassurance must have missed me, but never mind, I am quite glad to be home. I remember last year’s Christmas and wonder how a whole year could have passed and here we all are again, reunited. I take my usual tour of the grounds to see what has changed in these months of absence when I see someone in the distance walking towards Shibden. I know who it is straight away. Miss Walker.