A Summer in Scarborough

by Blake Smith

  “Mr. Jeffries, I believe,” Lady Catherine said, with her customary coolness.

  He bowed. “How do you do, Your Ladyship?”

  “I am surprised to see you in this company.”

  “I live here, madam,” he said with a touch of irony. “And as I have no taste for gaming or carousing, where should I spend my evening but in the company of my family and their friends?”

  Lady Catherine harrumphed and turned away. Anne swallowed her laughter. It was a great disappointment that they could not get along, but their exchanges were hardly boring and dull.

  Now I must only remember to be diverted instead of mortified, for they will certainly give me cause to be so in the future, she said to herself. It was truly a pity she and her mother had such unalike taste in friends. Lady Catherine seemed to want her companions to be as decided and formidable as she was, and if they could not be so, to be utterly fawning and complimentary. Anne simply wished for well-mannered and intelligent people, preferably ones possessed of some wit. She knew she was not a great wit herself, but not completely simple-minded, either. Her companions should be the same.

  Their journey to Number Twelve was mercifully short. Lady Catherine talked the whole way, remarking that the food had been tolerable, but the company was full of coxcombs and mushrooms, and had it not been for Georgiana’s presence, she would have never set foot in the house.

  Anne allowed her to talk unopposed, quietly agreeing that Mr. Hurst had looked absurd and Georgiana had played much better than Miss Bingley. She had quite enjoyed the evening, and was sure that Lady Catherine would be less content if she could not find fault with one or another of the arrangements. Such was her mother’s way, and Anne was weary enough not to want an argument.

  They gained Number Twelve and Anne went up to bed directly, happy for silence and solitude. She wanted to think of Mr. Jeffries, to call to mind his look and air, and remember their conversations.

  I like him very much, but does he like me, she wondered silently. Aside from an occasional absence of mind, and a habit of saying odd- though amusing- things, there was nothing objectionable about him. And he seemed to like her well enough.

  Could she love him? Could he learn to love her? Anne knew little of falling in love. Once, when she was eleven, she had thought the first footman impossibly handsome, and dreamed of a day when it was announced that he was actually an earl in disguise, but that had been the mere silliness of an invalid girl who had nothing more interesting to think of.

  Her friendship with Mr. Jeffries bore no resemblance to such childlike musings. She could converse with him without blushing, danced with him calmly, and could see his faults without the blind partiality that she thought was a symptom of love.

  Perhaps they would continue only as friends. She had few enough of those, and as she prepared to sleep, Anne reminded herself to be content with what she could get. Impossible dreams only led to unhappiness.

  CHAPTER Thirteen

  Anne rose the next day with a need for fresh air and exercise, and though it was shockingly early, she wished to walk by the sea before the rest of Scarborough decided to follow her example. The walking paths could become a sad crush at certain times of the day, and since her object was to avoid people- particularly people named Sir Henry Thornton- she donned her walking dress and, with Mrs. Jenkinson reluctantly trailing behind her, sought the seaside.

  Banks of pale grey clouds loomed low in the sky, and Anne knew that if she did not walk now, she would not have the opportunity until the weather cleared. So close to the sea, any storm was likely to pass quickly, but it could not be swift enough for her liking.

  There was a strong wind blowing in off the sea, and Anne was glad of her spencer and shawl. Her parasol was quickly closed and carried, lest it be torn from her hands by the strength of the wind.

  She breathed deeply of the sea air, because Sir Harold had instructed her to do so, and because it gave her pleasure to catch the scents of the sea, so unfamiliar to her.

  It was with astonishment and admiration that she saw the fishing boats bobbing among the waves. “Look,” she said to Mrs. Jenkinson, “The fishermen must be very skilled, do you think?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied. “But they must make their living, whatever the weather, and I suppose they have long experience in sailing, whatever the weather.”

  “I hope so. The waves are so much higher than they were only yesterday.”

  “You are quite right. I think it will rain very soon; we should turn back.”

  Anne reluctantly agreed to this plan, but no sooner had they turned about than a raindrop landed heavily on her cheek. And another. And another. She increased her pace and sheltered beneath her parasol, but to no avail. She was rapidly soaked through, and her hands were so cold she could barely hold onto the parasol.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Mrs. Jenkinson as they ascended the steps of Number Twelve twenty minutes later, having found no other means of conveyance than their own limbs. “I did not think it would rain so soon; I hope you have not caught cold.”

  “Dear Miss de Bourgh, do not worry for me,” Mrs. Jenkinson said as they handed their dripping shawls and parasols to the footmen and desired someone to send for tea and heated bricks. “I have a much stronger constitution than you. I fear you will take ill. That rain was quite cold, and you are chilled.”

  Anne could not disagree. She shivered where she stood, and her fingers were clumsy with cold. But with Mrs. Jenkinson’s assistance, she gained her room and positively commanded Mrs. Jenkinson to leave her to Harris’s competent care. “Dear ma’am, you too, are soaked. Please, get into dry things. You will be unable to aid me if you fall ill.”

  Mrs. Jenkinson reluctantly went, and Anne was shortly out of her wet walking dress and into a warm dressing gown. A parade of maids came and went for the next half hour, building up the fire, bringing tea, slipping a hot brick under her feet, and so on.

  Anne did not protest. She was already feeling unwell, though the cold numbness had slowly left her fingers and toes. “It was foolish of me, wasn’t it, Harris? To go walking, I mean.”

  Harris patted her shoulder. “You couldn’t have known it would rain so hard, miss. Just listen to it, beating against the window like that!” she added, nodding toward the glass that was being pelted by water. “No wonder decent people only come to Scarborough in the summer; I can’t imagine living here in the winter.”

  Anne agreed and sipped her tea. She’d been in Scarborough only week, and now to be shut inside because of a storm- it was rather vexing.

  To be shut in because of illness would be worse, of course, and she feared that her rashness had placed her in exactly that situation. How awful, to be away from home for nearly the first time in her life, and not be able to go out.

  She must get well as quickly as she could manage. It was impossible to say how ill she would become; a cold was the least she could hope for, and that would force her to remain abed for a week and be nearly another week in slow recovery of her strength.

  Anne sighed and resolved to follow the doctor’s orders and take care not to delay her recovery by any stubbornness or false hopes that might lead her to attempt more than she was able.

  But the next week promised to be tiresome in the extreme, no matter what she did.

  ***

  Her fears were quickly realized. She rested for much of the day, and ate dinner on a tray by the fire. But her head already throbbed and she could not get warm. Harris and Mrs. Jenkinson fussed over her and draped her in so many shawls she could hardly move, and she went to bed only to enjoy a restless night, plagued by feverishness and aching limbs.

  Dawn was breaking when she finally dropped off to sleep, and the sun was high in the sky when she next awoke. She yawned and immediately wished she hadn’t; her throat was terribly sore and even that slight movement disturbed the blankets, letting in a draft of cool air that felt like ice.

  But Harris was on the watch, and quickly t
ucked the blanket around her, then handed her first a cup of tea, then one of lemonade. All of this was done as silently as Anne could wish, and she began to feel a bit better. The combination of warm and cold drinks was wonderfully soothing to her throat, and though her limbs remained sore and her head still ached, it no longer throbbed like someone was beating her with a mallet.

  No sooner had she begun to sigh with relief and express her thanks to Harris, than Lady Catherine stepped into the room with only a perfunctory knock. Harris, the lucky woman, vanished from the room as if by magic.

  “Good, you’re awake,” Lady Catherine said. “Dress and come down. Sir Henry Thornton is here, inquiring after you. It seems he saw you from a distance yesterday and wished to know if you took ill from being outside.”

  Sir Henry was here? And he had been spying on her walks? Anne closed her eyes, as if by not seeing what was before, she could make it not so.

  “Your Ladyship must excuse me,” she whispered. “Give Sir Henry my compliments, please, but I cannot even rise, let alone dress for visitors.”

  “You are being abominably rude,” Lady Catherine snapped. “Dress and come down at once. Sir Henry has been kind enough to call on you, and I won’t have you insulting my friends by your incivility.”

  Only Lady Catherine could think that Anne was well enough for visitors, and only she could think that Sir Henry would be insulted if Anne excused herself from a meeting.

  “Mamma, please-” she began to protest.

  “Anne. Get up.”

  There was nothing she could do. Lady Catherine was fully capable of dragging Anne out of bed if she chose- possibly even of lifting her and carrying her down the stairs. For a moment, Anne imagined such a scene, of simply ignoring her mother and seeing if Lady Catherine would actually do it. It was a pleasant thought, putting her mother in such a singular situation, but it would gain Anne nothing. She would be obliged to talk to Sir Henry, and to do so in nothing more than her nightgown, after being carried into company like a spoiled child- it was more than her dignity could bear.

  “Could I not send down a message?” she asked, her last-ditch effort to avoid Sir Henry. “Or even a note? I might be equal to writing.” Her mother’s countenance did not change. “Your Ladyship, I am not afraid of going down the stairs,” Anne added. “I am afraid I shall not have the strength to ascend them afterward.”

  “Don’t be absurd. You are always thinking yourself more ill than you truly are,” Lady Catherine said, which was the exact opposite of her usual sentiments. “Rise and dress at once.” There was a tap on the door. “There is Harris, come to assist you. I did not think you could dress without help.”

  How kind of you to think of my comfort, Anne said silently. But Harris was opening the wardrobe and removing a warm day dress that Anne had not thought she would require during the summer. “Here we are, miss,” that kind woman said as she lay the dress on the bed. “If you must go down-” here she darted a glare at Lady Catherine, who did not see it- “you shall be very comfortable in this. And you must have a shawl, of course.”

  Anne saw there was no way out of her predicament, and submitted to Harris’s care. And she must admit, Harris was very skilled. She warmed Anne’s dressing gown and day dress, would not allow her out of bed without first being well wrapped up, and had everything ready to see Anne dressed and her hair simply dressed with a minimum of fuss and bother.

  Lady Catherine remained in the room, watching Anne’s slow and painful progress toward a proper appearance, and when Anne was finally presentable, gave a regal nod. “That will do well enough.” She sailed out of the room, leaving Anne to follow on Harris’s arm.

  Mrs. Jenkinson was waiting at the top of the stairs to assist her, and once they’d reached the hall, gently dismissed Harris. “I’ll take care of Miss de Bourgh; have no fear.”

  Harris knew her place, which was certainly not in the drawing room, and allowed Anne to go with only a final tweak of her shawl. Anne was left to face her unwanted company with only Mrs. Jenkinson as an ally.

  And in her current state, she wished for more and stronger friends. She was shaking from her descent of the stairs, and her throat hurt was so sore that merely swallowing, never mind speaking, caused her pain.

  “Miss de Bourgh, you look very unwell,” Mrs. Jenkinson whispered, so they were not overheard by Lady Catherine. “Who is this company that you must see?”

  “Sir Henry Thornton,” Anne whispered back, making a face to show her distaste of the matter.

  “Oh. Let us hope his visit will be short.”

  They were at the door to the drawing room, and Anne was spared the necessity of replying.

  Sir Henry looked much the same as ever, dressed in slightly florid style that seemed to emphasis how very large he was, both in size and in stature. The drawing room, not a small space, seemed tiny, and when he turned about, coattails flaring around him, Anne feared he would sweep the vase of flowers from the table.

  “How do you do, Sir Henry?” she said, because Lady Catherine would scold her if she did not.

  “I am quite well, Miss de Bourgh,” he said. “I am sorry to see that you are not.” He came forward. “Allow me to assist you.” He put his hand under her elbow.

  Anne was grateful for the support but not for the man giving it. This close, his scent was obvious and displeasing to her- too heavy and dull for a gentleman. She recoiled but had not the strength to gain her point, and was obliged to follow his lead as he helped her to the sofa.

  The gesture was kind but she could not think well of him for it. It was as if he wished to be close to her while she was too weak to push him away. As if her weakness gave him strength.

  And of course, he did not leave her side when she was seated. Nor did he sit beside her. Anne could not tell if she preferred him to sit near or to loom over her.

  While she was so weak and feverish, Sir Henry’s forthright manner and large presence could not make her comfortable. As before, he would stand a little too close, and Anne found herself hunching in her seat, as if by making herself smaller, she might avoid his notice.

  With Lady Catherine’s stern gaze upon her, she asked a few questions about the weather and if Sir Henry had seen anyone amusing in the past few days. He answered civilly, and Anne’s agitation was beginning to lessen when Lady Catherine rose and held out her hand to Mrs. Jenkinson.

  Everyone looked rather confused by this. “Come along,” Lady Catherine ordered. “I require your assistance. We shall leave the young people to talk for a moment.”

  Even Sir Henry looked momentarily surprised by her forthrightness, though he made no protest. It was left to Anne to say, “No. Mrs. Jenkinson, please stay. Or you, Mamma. Someone must stay with me; I am very unwell.”

  “I do not mean to overtax your strength,” Sir Henry said obsequiously. He did not offer to leave, however.

  Mrs. Jenkinson was dithering, torn between habitual obedience to the mother and the no doubt rather frightening sight of the daughter. Anne sighed. “Mrs. Jenkinson, if you are leaving, please let me take your arm. I am returning to my room.” She sat upright, that she might rise and cross the room, but was seized by a fit of coughing that left her trembling and whimpering from the pain in her sore throat.

  Her companion was immediately at her side. “Oh, Miss de Bourgh, indeed you should return to bed.” She continued in this vein for some moments, expressing her worry and informing Sir Henry and anyone else who cared to listen how Anne was always thinking herself less ill than she truly was, and how she took such care not to be a trouble but of course it was no trouble to care for her because she was such a good girl. Many such abbreviated and contradictory statements followed, but as she spoke, she was placing a firm hand under Anne’s elbow, helping her to rise, and leading her to the door. Anne had never been so grateful to her.

  Lady Catherine stood by, neither helping nor hindering Anne’s progress. It was the best she could hope for, Anne decided. As a sop to decency, and becaus
e she did not want to be scolded for incivility, she halted at the door and turned back to Sir Henry. He was still standing by the sofa, watching her not with the care and distress of a lover who was not permitted to assist the object of his affections, but with a cool and remote gaze.

  “Thank you for your visit, Sir Henry,” Anne said at random. She wanted to be away from the drawing room with no further delays. “I am sorry that I am not well enough for more conversation with you. Good day.”

  Sir Henry bowed and began to say something of his regret, but Mrs. Jenkinson had taken her dismissal of him as a cue, and sallied forth into the hall, gently towing Anne in her wake. Since that was what she wanted, Anne made no protest.

  CHAPTER fourteen

  Even the slight exertion of meeting Sir Henry had tired her, and Anne slept for the rest of the day. The fever departed the next morning, thankfully, but in its wake came unending sneezing and coughing fits. She was obliged to sleep sitting up, with the approval of Sir Harold, who examined her on the second day, and she must have dirtied a hundred handkerchiefs each day.

  Sir Harold said she had only a violent cold, nothing more serious. “But we must endeavor to get the better of it, Miss de Bourgh. The human body can only suffer one illness at a time, but it is weakened by each successive illness, and if we are not very careful, you may find yourself ill again as soon as this complaint has passed.”

  “What must I do?” she whispered tiredly.

  “Rest is most important. Miss Harris has been giving you lemon water, I see; if you can stand to drink it, do so. I shall not take blood, as the fever has passed. And I shall make out a prescription for a medicine that I believe will make you breathe more comfortably.”

  This advice was all to Anne’s liking, and she submitted to Sir Harold’s directions. It seemed she would be at least another few days in bed. Fortunately, Harris was wonderfully obliging, and fetched books for her from Number Twelve’s little library. Anne thought she might have been bored out of her mind without something to do, and reading was the least taxing activity she could think of.