Beginning, Previous Section, Section III, Next Section
Chapter 4, Part 1 ~ ...And a Time to Gather Stones Together
Posted on Tuesday, 25 January 2000, at 9 : 47 p.m.
The village of Auldbridge, in Surrey, was a village like most others, with little to distinguish it among so many, an average hamlet with its own complement of young and old, the strong and the infirm, the talented and clever, as well as the less-talented and less-clever, the diverting, and those easily diverted. It had its share of gentlemen and laborers, of poor and rich - among the latter those who, being relatively rich, felt themselves relatively poor, and those poor who, content with what they had, felt themselves very rich indeed when compared to persons with no place at all to call home, no roof over their heads, and no one to call neighbor or friend. The cottages in this village were of a median cast, and the manor houses neither superior nor inferior to those in other counties. The magnificence of the Hall shone just as brightly as other grand places, such as Wilton House, Chatsworth, Clandon Park or Woburn Abbey, without eclipsing those great estates. The butcher, baker and cabinet maker here carried on their trades in tranquility, without drawing undue attention from any other persons or neighborhoods, though their work was well-approved by their own general clientele. The sun and rain shone and showered no more nor less over Auldbridge than over any other area of England, and in it, life was lived and experienced to no greater or lesser degree than elsewhere.
It was an ancient town, built around the only crossing of the Thames River - at that time - before London itself. It owed its initial existence and prosperity to the business of toll-taking in those early years, but more recently - over the past two hundred years or so - increasingly to the patronage and care of the owners of Auldbury Hall and the adjoining lands: the Earl of Auldbury, his ancestors and descendents. The fortunes of Auldbridge had waxed and waned along with the last ten generations of that family, the Fairfields, some of whom had increased prosperity for all, others of whom had, through their miserly and selfish habits, prospered themselves while allowing the village to fend for itself, and still others who had gambled away much of the fortune with which they had been favored at their births, while ensuing generations had built it all up again.
Oliver Fairfield, the tenth Earl, was the latest owner and occupant of 'the Hall,' as all the villagers spoke of it. He was a gentleman, in every sense of the word, of sixty years, of medium height, with a wealth, still, of white hair, brown eyes, and the upright carriage and courtly manners that spoke well of the longevity of strict and constant training as a young lad. He was an oldest son, and, since the death of his two brothers, the only surviving son, with two married sisters living comfortably on estates in the south and west of the country. He had been widowed almost 20 years before, his wife having succumbed to the epidemic of consumption which had claimed many in the village, and which had left its mark on still others left alive. Lord Auldbury himself had been dangerously ill, almost at the point of death, but had revived, only to hear the news of his wife's death, as well as the deaths of his two children, then eight and six years old. In his grief, he had begun to travel, everywhere and anywhere, stopping only infrequently at the Hall, where memories of his beloved family lingered in every room, and haunted every corner of the extensive gardens and park. The tales of his travels, as told by some servants - none of whom traveled with the master - and certain villagers - always ready and eager to add to the local history and legends - included exotic lands, personages and adventures of all kinds. But, since the Earl was always seen to be hale and sound of all limbs and mind on his return from these supposedly harrowing journeys, those with sense gave little credence to the wilder rumours that flourished and spread regardless of the truth. He had most recently been on the continent, traveling as far east as St Petersburg, while taking in Paris, Mannheim and Vienna, among other towns, along the way. At every stop, he had indulged his taste for music by attending as many concerts of composers and musicians as possible - the famous, not-so-famous, and not-yet famous - speaking with many personally, and collecting whatever written pieces of music they could be induced to part with, or that could be found elsewhere. Previously, he had also been some years in the American colonies, or States, as they now called themselves and had found the independence and fierce pride of the folk settled there quite refreshing and invigorating, all the while, however, missing the centuries-old traditions and long-settled towns and villages of his more gentle native land.
During his visits to the Hall, though infrequent and invariably short in duration, he had always taken the time to share the music he had acquired, and the newest discoveries he had made, with Joanna Taylor, whose husband had died in the same epidemic which had claimed Anne Fairfield and her children. Mrs. Taylor had been raised as a lady, and been taught all manner of accomplishments, but in music she had truly excelled, having an extraordinary ear, disciplined application, and a truly prodigious natural taste and talent. At two and twenty she had married for love, to a man far beneath her, or so he was deemed by most members of her family, who, excepting her brother Lucas - a younger son with nothing pecuniary to add to his name, who had himself merited familial censure by happily accepting a degrading position in service to Lord Auldbury - had from that time onward wanted nothing more to do with her. Mr. Taylor had been the postmaster of Auldbridge and the surrounding countryside; upon his death, Mrs. Taylor had been granted the same position, which provided £25 per annum. This small sum she augmented by whatever means she was able. She kept a small shop, in combination with the post office, taught willing - and a few unwilling - girls and young ladies on the pianoforte, and let out a room or two whenever there were visitors who, for one reason or another, could not stay at the The Swallow's Nest Inn. Her cottage was small, but well-built and neatly kept. It was on the far outskirts of the village, actually not a part of it at all, being the former gatekeeper's cottage for the Hall. A new cottage for the gatekeeper had been built by the previous generation of Fairfields but one, the original at that time not being deemed grand enough for anyone connected to the Earl, even though the connection was one merely of employment. Being so close to the Hall, and remote from the High Street, the old cottage made musical evenings for Oliver Fairfield and Mrs. Taylor convenient, most pleasant - being better fitted for the chamber music they preferred than the echoing great rooms of the Hall - and even fairly private, though no doings in this village remained private for any length of time.
Such was the home, and the neighborhood, in which a weary, frightened young lady, sixteen years of age, unmarried and three months with child, found herself in mid-May, 18--, arriving late one evening, and giving her name as Beth Willison.
Chapter 4, Part 2 ~ ...And a Time to Gather Stones Together
Beth willed her eyes to open, though the heavy lids would have much preferred to remain closed, and slowly surveyed the room about her. The bedchamber she found herself in was small, smaller than that to which she had been accustomed in Dorsetshire, but a marked improvement on the garret room above the Wild Goose Tavern. This room, in addition to the bed, was simply furnished, with a stout wardrobe standing next the door, a chair near the windows, and a washstand opposite the wardrobe. The bright blue covering on the bed put Beth in mind of the sky of the clearest, most fair day in mid-summer; it's colour was echoed in the blue and yellow curtains hung over windows whose panes glistened in the morning sunshine, a few rays of which had found their way between the curtains to stripe the wooden floor, which was covered with small rugs. A fresh breeze had made its way into the chamber as well, bearing with it the sweet scent of late spring, and proclaiming the day fit for all manner of activity and life.
As her mind shook itself free from the stupor of a deep sleep, Beth began to distinguish the sounds which had brought her to a slow consciousness. Two voices alternated in conversation somewhere below; one, low and gentle, yet merry, spoke a few words for every spate that came from the second, a curiously flat, sing-song voice. The latter seemed strangely familiar to Beth. As she closed her eyes again briefly, her mind played over a conversation, long-buried...
Her name is Eliza, just like you. And she has a new blue ribbon. Here, you play with her and take care of her today. She wants to be held and rocked and sung to and...
How odd to be imagining that same voice, thought Beth. Perhaps it was a dream. She listened, but heard nothing more. She opened her eyes once again as she heard the door creak slowly open, and saw the face of a young woman appear around its edge, a fresh-scrubbed but plain face, with large blue eyes and shining brown hair arranged simply - most unfashionably but quite practically - in a long plait wrapped round her head. Seeing Beth awake, the girl, not much older than Beth herself, pushed the door open wide enough to allow her to carefully bring in a tray set with tea and some bread and butter.
"Good morning to you, miss," she said, with a warm smile, in the same low, gentle voice Beth thought she had earlier discerned. "I see you're awake now. You must have been so tired from your trip here. I hope you've slept well."
"Yes, thank you," replied Beth, sitting up slowly, and wondering who this might be, as Mr. Carter had not mentioned a young lady being in the house, only Mrs. Joanna Taylor, and a Miss Jenny Taylor, who had sounded to be very young.
"I've brought you a little something to eat now," the stranger continued, setting the tray down on the chair. "It's not much, but Mrs. Taylor will soon be by for some refreshment herself; this should just tide you over for a short while."
"Is it so late, then?" asked Beth, astonished to find she had slept so long. It seemed but a moment from the time she had lain herself down, to the time she had opened her eyes.
"Yes, miss. It's nearly eleven o'clock. But, not to worry," she hastened to add, seeing the alarmed look on Beth's face, "Mrs. Taylor said to let you sleep as long as possible, that you would likely need it. We tried to be quiet, Jenny and I, so as not to wake you 'til you were ready, but Jenny can hardly hold her excitement in, she's that anxious to meet you. If there's anything else I can help you with, miss, just you let me know. Your bags are in the wardrobe. I can help you with them later if you like, or tomorrow."
"Thank you..."
"Hannah, Hannah Burns, miss. I help Mrs. Taylor mornings in the house, and with looking after Jenny, so you'll see right much of me. I'll leave you to your tea now," she grinned widely as she continued, "and go reassure Jenny that you are indeed here, that you haven't somehow disappeared, and that she won't have to curb her impatience so very much longer." She nodded with a last friendly smile before disappearing slowly through the door.
Mrs. Taylor came home a short while later to share a light meal, and to introduce Beth to Jenny. At first Beth could only stare astonished at the sight of the girl, but well-taught manners came to her rescue; she repressed her curiosity and merely accepted the enthusiastic greeting offered, with a polite smile. The next hour passed quickly, in a blur of conversation dominated by Jenny's eager voice, interspersed with quiet replies to her, and offers of various dishes to Beth, by Mrs. Taylor. The offerings were plain, but well prepared and plentiful. Afterwards, Jenny and Hannah cleared away, while Mrs. Taylor stayed behind to speak with Beth.
"You may not remember much from yesterday - the hour was so late, and you seemed so worn out - so I want you to know again how very welcome you are, my dear. We hope you will be comfortable here with us, for however long you may wish to stay."
Beth felt all the unease of her situation rush over her afresh. It had lain submerged, buried in the newness and peacefulness of her surroundings. She coloured, and, with her gaze fixed on her lap, where her tightly clasped hands lay, began, hesitantly, "You... you are very kind, Mrs. Taylor, and I'm ever so grateful. I'm... I'm sorry to put you to any trouble. I... I don't have much to pay you--"
Here Mrs. Taylor interrupted her. "We may speak of all that later on today, if you wish, or even tomorrow; there is no hurry. We will have time enough to come to an understanding, and to discuss whatever you may wish. For this afternoon, I would suggest you take time to rest. You have had a difficult several weeks, I understand, so please be sure to refresh yourself. I must return to my shop now. Hannah will only stay here long enough to clear away in the kitchen; the rest of the house has already been seen to. Then she will take Jenny to Miss Rose for the afternoon, while she goes on to the Gilberts, at The Swallow's Nest. You would find yourself alone in the house then, if that appeals to you today. Or, you might even like to join them and walk a little about the village. It is another pleasant day, and after the bad air and weather in London these past weeks, it may do you good to be out in the sun and fresh breeze again."
Chapter 4, Part 3 ~ ...And a Time to Gather Stones Together
The pleasant weather indeed beckoned too insistently to be ignored or denied, and Beth soon found herself walking between Jenny and Hannah, Beth and Jenny matching their pace to Hannah's slower one, owing to a limp. This must be painful for her, thought Beth, as she noticed the young woman's difficult and awkward progress. I hope her injury may soon be healed. The way to Miss Rose's cottage was passed in what would become a familiar routine, with Jenny speaking twenty words to each one Hannah or Beth was able to put in. She chattered about her dolls and her mother, and, as they neared the village, about the houses they passed, imparting information as to the inhabitants of each. Her retailing of facts regarding the villagers was, however, limited to names, names of children, and their preferred colour of dress, as well as the animals kept at each abode. As they neared the cottage which would see her leave them, she became more fixed on the subject of Miss Rose, a certain Miss Ross, who lived there as well, and the lessons which she would have. As Jenny knocked on the door, Beth looked after her, curious to catch her first glimpse of a villager she was sure to meet often - according to Jenny, this woman was also her friend, and an old friend of her mother - wondering what sort of person would be teacher to Jenny. She was disappointed, however, for after knocking, Jenny opened the door herself, apparently in response to a call from within, and quickly disappeared inside the house.
Beth was now at leisure to ask Hannah a little about the village and its occupants herself, and found her less voluble but more informative in her comments than Jenny had been. She smiled conspiratorially at Beth as they slowly crossed the road. "I will tell you only what I know of our neighbors here, but if it is gossip you are partial to, I am afraid you'll soon be in the thick of it yourself, as a subject," she said, nodding almost imperceptibly toward the window of a house farther on, where a curtain suddenly returned to its normal position. The house to which this window belonged was on the High Street; a large sign before it could be seen, bearing a conspicuous rendering of a needle and thread, plainly identifying the craft plied within to be that of tailor or seamstress. "Miss Goldsmith," Hannah whispered. "She likes above all else to be the first to see and hear new things, even if it is only what she imagines to see or hear." Beth felt herself grow a little cold at the thought of the coming months, for she knew all too well the power, imagination and sometime savagery of the local 'newsmongers' in a small neighborhood. She had never, consciously, been the object of gossip before, having only participated in this pastime on the more interesting and gratifying side. It would seem that her experience was now to broaden. Beth gave Hannah a sidelong glance to judge whether there had been any deeper meaning to her words, but, on observing the guileless and friendly expression on that young woman's face, decided that her comment had been quite a natural one, and not born of any deeper knowledge of Beth's situation. As she considered what rumours her coming must have already provoked, and what more would be forthcoming, she was almost decided to return to London, and the comfortable anonymity afforded by that populous town. But, remembering the kindness she had already met with in Auldbridge, and the enduring and insistent memories from thirteen years ago, she gave a sigh, and determined to face each day, for the present, as it came. She could always leave again, if she so chose.
Beth came to herself to hear Hannah describing someone as very kind, though a little stern at times, and how very remarkable it was how much she was able to do despite her circumstances. Beth had no idea of whom Hannah had been speaking, but determined to find out at a later time who this extraordinary woman might be, as her companion was now pointing out a small cottage, nestled against the side of the village church, naming it as the vicarage. It seemed a neat and well-kept house, though rendered almost insignificant by the magnificent garden surrounding it, wherein could be seen a profusion of plants, shrubs and trees, growing and blooming, a testimony to the care bestowed on it, an obvious labour of love. The vicar must be mightily fond of gardening, thought Beth, by the looks of his property! His care and labours on behalf of his parishioners were evidently on a similar scale, as the current occupant of this modest abode seemed to inspire the requisite amount of awe in Hannah, but a surprising amount of genuine admiration and goodwill - even affection - as well. According to her, the good pastor was a great favorite with most all the villagers and inhabitants of the surrounding countryside, as well as up at the Hall, with Lord Auldbury, who had given him the living of Auldbridge over five years ago now. Everyone was of one mind in declaring that a better candidate could not have been found. Well... almost everyone.
Lord Auldbury himself was spoken of in a tone of highest esteem, a man of considerable wealth and standing, and inspiring a deep loyalty in his neighbors and dependents. He had just recently returned after years of extensive travel, and all hoped he would remain in residence for some time now, and not leave again too soon. He was a man who cared for others as much as for himself, and was said to use his great fortune to help those in genuine need, those truly deserving of help or encouragement.
Two small girls, giggling and talking as they carried a basket between them - which looked to be full of all manner of things, though easily carried by the two - next attracted Beth's notice. They looked alike enough to be twins, but for the color of their hair - one, blond, the other, a bright chestnut shade - and the ribbons - pink and yellow - adorning their long braids. Seeing Beth's attention captured by them, Hannah informed her that they were Phoebe and Julia Hobart, eight and nine years old, respectively, daughters of the couple who kept the draper's shop a little farther up the High Street. They shared a teacher with Jenny, and other village children, having their lessons each morning with Miss Rose, while Jenny went in the afternoon. Their father, Mr. Hobart, was the very soul of sensible amiability and generosity, and would do anything for one of his neighbors, and much for any mere acquaintance, or even a stranger. No one could recall an instance of this affable man turning any reasonable request away. Mrs. Hobart was also allowed to be a kind soul and a devoted wife and mother, though a trifle absentminded at times, confided Hannah, with a grin.
A few steps more, and Hannah stopped next the door of a large old building, where, on a sign faded and weathered, was made known to all interested passersby - those willing to step close enough to make it out and be thus informed - that The Swallow's Nest Inn was the name of this establishment; to be inferred was that travelers could here find sustenance and lodgings if they so desired. With a few descriptive and graceful motions of her hands, Hannah explained the arrangement of the rest of the village, offering Beth several choices of route, should she wish to walk farther before returning to the Taylors' cottage. A smile and a nod, and Hannah entered the Inn, leaving Beth alone.
She stood and looked around for a few moments before continuing on the High Street. It was a typical workday in this small village, with its typical traffic and activity: a few wagons lumbering their way up the street, weighed down with assorted loads, a horse or donkey here and there, bearing a person or other things, or standing patiently, waiting for an owner to return, or to finish a conversation begun with a neighbor while they were in mid-stride, the animals seemingly accustomed or oblivious to all around them. A few dogs lay curled in sunlit doorways, taking their well-deserved rest after having kept the midnight watch for their masters.
To keep her thoughts from becoming agitated and low, as they surely would were she to dwell on her own circumstances, Beth began to take note of her surroundings and the buildings she was passing. Her recollections of this village were those of a typical young child's, made of images and happenings, rather than facts or geography. She now noticed that the draper's shop was near the seamstress' cottage, a well-worn path between the two could just be made out from the street, leading from the back of the one to the other. Several other shops followed: a baker, from whose open door wafted a lingering scent of the day's fresh bread, a butcher, others of less determinate wares. She had soon reached the post office, and, through a window, could see Mrs. Taylor behind a counter, busy with several customers. Beth decided to stop there on her return. After this, the shops were at an end; ignoring the kind suggestions made by Hannah, Beth continued her way out of the village. Several lanes branched off the highway here, leading to larger estates most likely, or farmsteads. A few cottages of various shapes and sizes remained to be seen, and then only meadows with copses of trees scattered about, and fields, seemingly dormant in brown, or dozing in pale yellow shoots, awaiting the greening of full summer. The air was almost still; few sounds were to be heard. Birds lazed in trees after a busy morning of calling their greetings, and feeding their families. A drone of insects could barely be distinguished, a portent of the summer to come, when such dronings would become louder and more insistent with the length and heat of the days. The air was sweet with the earliest cuttings of grass and hay.
Beth walked on, now immersed in the thoughts her way had thus far inspired. Her memories of this village were bittersweet. It had been a happy time in one sense; with pecuniary and personal worries no longer hounding them, her mother, though weak, had been lighter of heart and disposition than Beth had ever known her. With then-Lieutenant Brandon at her side all but continuously, Eliza Brandon had almost returned to the lovely, lively girl she once had been, and had shown a hint of the loving mother she could have become. The months here had been peaceful, though ending in the inevitable event of her mother's death. Beth remembered names but poorly, yet some faces she was sure she would recall. I wonder if Miss Hetty is still here? but... she was so old, even then... and Miss... oh, what was her name, the nurse. What a character! always so merry, sometimes doing amusing or awkward things, but always able to laugh heartily at herself. Beth did not recall knowing Mrs. Taylor; at least... but then, with her cottage so far from the village, and actually on the manor grounds, it was unlikely that she had seen much of her. Yet... Jenny was so familiar to her. Jenny... I wonder... maybe Hannah would tell me...
Only a lengthening of shadows and a cool breeze in advance of the evening hours brought to Beth's attention how very long she had been walking. She turned quickly and began to retrace her steps, now regretting her impulse to walk so far beyond the village itself; she found herself much fatigued by the time the nearest cottages were once again in sight. She had just reached the post office/stationer, when the door opened, and Mrs. Taylor herself came out. She seemed surprised but pleased to see Beth, and, after locking the door carefully, fell into step with her. They soon came to the small cottage where Jenny awaited them. Collecting her and the things she had accumulated during the afternoon, they walked the remainder of the way with a comfortable stream of words from Jenny as accompaniment.
Chapter 4, Part 4 ~ ...And a Time to Gather Stones Together
"Mrs. Taylor," Beth began hesitantly, nervously fingering her skirt, folding and unfolding the fabric unthinkingly, "what did Mr. Carter... tell you... about me?" She kept her gaze averted from that of the older woman, keeping it fixed instead on the fire, and the flames which leapt and danced on the hearth, throwing grotesque shadows on the walls and ceiling.
Mrs. Taylor felt that complete truth would be the greatest kindness now, awkward though it might be for them both, saving time and misunderstanding in the future. She kept her eyes on her hands and the needles flashing briskly as she replied, glancing up only briefly to gauge her companion's state.
"Mr. Carter told me what his daughter had told him. You had been left alone in London several months ago, with no money or resources, and had been sent to Betsey by her sister. You had worked for the Stoughs since then - by the way, Betsey was quite impressed and pleased with your willingness to work so hard, seeing as you had obviously not been brought up to do such things." Mrs. Taylor interrupted her story to look up with a reassuring smile at Beth, as if to comfort her that not all the tale about her had been bad, before continuing, "You had not been feeling well for some time, and now believe yourself to be with child." This last was said matter-of-factly, with no discernible judgement in her tone of voice.
That Beth was embarrassed by this direct statement could not be denied. That she was perhaps also relieved that her secret was known, that she would now be able to share this with someone, and that someone a person to whom she felt so instinctively drawn, someone whose kindness and trustworthiness were so apparent, could likewise not be denied. She felt herself wishing she could have come before this woman under a different circumstance. With a deep flush o'erspreading her face, she hung her head and admitted, "Yes, if what Mrs. Stough says is right, then," with a deep breath, "I am. I... I know I should be scolded and censured, and I am ashamed. I... but he... I... I never expected this!" With these words she burst into tears, much as she had only a few days before at the Wild Goose. In this instance, however, her listener had much more ease in such a situation. Putting down her handiwork, Mrs. Taylor moved to sit beside Beth and draw her into a soft, comforting embrace. She said nothing, simply rocking slowly and smoothing the girl's hair as she wept bitterly. After a time, Beth's sobs grew less convulsed, 'til at last she hiccouphed and slowly pulled herself away from the older woman. Drawing a handkerchief from a pocket, she began shakily to dry her tears. "Thank you," she whispered, and then accepted a fresh, larger handkerchief from Mrs. Taylor when her own small, delicate square proved woefully inadequate to the task of mopping up the residues of such a tempest. "Thank you," she repeated, in a somewhat steadier tone.
After she had calmed, Beth spoke again, still not meeting Mrs. Taylor's eyes. "I suppose it is all quite hopeless for me now. You yourself must think very ill of me. Indeed, you must despise me!" she exclaimed, in a tone, however, and with an expression which bespoke a longing to have her statements denied, nay, almost a conviction that they would be denied, by this amiable woman. Her listener studied the averted face, seeking to know the heart behind the words. She sensed that the shame Beth now felt was more due to the consequences of her actions, than of the actions themselves, that she felt more self-pity and frustration at dreams denied and hopes dashed, than any real penitence. Sighing inwardly, she hoped that time, and... perhaps... Well, perhaps Beth might be changed somehow, a change which mere words spoken at this time would most probably not effect.
With only mere words at her immediate disposal, however, Mrs. Taylor still felt candour to be best as she answered. "My dear child, I cannot say that I approve of what you have done," she began, firmly, but kindly, "but it is not my place to be your judge, and to determine your punishment. Indeed," she added with a wry smile, "though I cannot speak from personal experience, but having lived more than twice as long in this world as you have, your situation alone will most likely bring chastisement enough in the time to come. But," as the face before her fell anew, she forced Beth to look at her with a gentle hand under the girl's chin, "as long as you are alive, there is always hope - no one is hopeless who lives. There will be difficulties ahead, but there will undoubtedly be joy in your future as well, if you will let yourself see and accept it. There will be those who will scorn and take it upon themselves to judge you, but there are also those who will be most willing to help you, if you will accept and allow them to do so."
Beth's eyes filled with fresh tears at the tender care she felt from this woman, even though her words had not all been to her liking, and she felt a deepening gratitude for this sanctuary, this haven, for however long it would be available to her.
Mrs. Taylor resumed her place, and her knitting, while Beth stared into the flames and wished in vain for her difficulties to be as easily consumed and disappeared as the pieces of wood turning to ash before her eyes - the work of only a short time, hours at most - instead of the months and years which stretched ahead in her own case, unpleasantly and most unromantically so in the imaginings of her mind.
After pondering for some minutes how best to broach another matter of likely sensitivity, Mrs. Taylor finally asked, "You told Mrs. Stough and Mr. Carter that you have no family. Is there no one at all whom we might contact, who you would wish to write to, or have come here? A distant relation, a schoolmistress, or even a friend, perhaps?"
Beth was roused from her reverie by this question, and stiffened, answering shortly, "No. My parents and grandparents are dead, and I have no brothers or sisters." This much she could say truthfully, but hoped desperately that no more questions would be forthcoming on this topic. On no account did she wish to come before her uncle in such a condition. How angry and ashamed he would be! How disappointed! What that gentleman might be suffering through her disappearance and prolonged silence did not begin to enter her mind, nor touch her heart. She had thoughts only for her own self, her own miseries, at present.
Her companion, seeing the closed face and hearing the hardened tones of this response, felt it best to leave this subject. Another time... After casting a glance at the simple clock which graced the mantelpiece, she gathered her knitting together, thrust it once again into the basket next her chair, and rose. "Well, now," she said, "I believe it is getting much too late for me to sit any longer. My stitches will soon be wandering in ways and patterns which I would be hard-pressed to amend or undo tomorrow. It might be best if you retired now, too. You must keep regular hours while you are here, and remain as well as possible." With such a suggestion kindly given, but with no accompanying demeanor demanding acquiescence, Beth made to obey with an alacrity and willingness that had rarely been seen in many years upon receiving similar direction or advice. They stood and quitted the chamber together, Mrs. Taylor smiling broadly as she added, "if for no other reason than Jenny has made many plans for you, and will surely keep you quite occupied!"
Beth looked up at the mention of Jenny, and began to speak, as they made their way through the hall and to the stairs, "Mrs. Taylor..." Her words trailed off, as she was not sure how to ask what she wished to know, and felt all at once the impertinence of her intended question.
As if reading the younger woman's thoughts, Mrs. Taylor looked at her steadily, and responded, "I think we can leave all other subjects for tomorrow, my dear. We will have ample opportunities to discuss whatever you may wish, I do promise you!" With that, she gave Beth's arm a squeeze, and nudged her gently in the direction of her room. "Sleep well. May God watch over you as you rest."
Beth pondered Mrs. Taylor's parting words as she lay comfortably in bed a short time later. I know what I have been taught, but is there really a God? At that moment, she almost hoped not, for surely she would not be in His good graces at this time! She turned over once, then fell fast asleep, to dream bucolic dreams of meadows, birds, flowers and the drone of bees. No where in her dreams did a masculine shape named 'John' take form. It was as if he had vanished from her mind as quickly as had the romantic dreams of a love-filled marriage and home vanished from her future.
Chapter 4, Part 5 ~ And a Time to Gather Stones Together
Not fifteen miles away, in London, John Thomas Barrow had not yet retired for the night, but was, in fact, more than willing for this day to be finished. He was footsore and much put out, having spent the entire day tramping from one coaching Inn to another, as well as stopping at all other places where transport of any shape or form could be had. There was absolutely no indication whatsoever that Eliza Williams had left London by any conventional means. Could she have left by boat? But where would she have been bound for? He was beginning to wonder if his meeting with the pleasant couple in Gracechurch Street had been a dream, for no other trace of her having ever been in town was to be found. Were it not for the fear and anxiety in the eyes of Col Brandon, and the shock and truth in those of Miss Robertson, he might yet believe that the whole story had been nothing but an elaborate hoax. He was beginning to fear he might never find the young woman, or, worse still, what it was he would find, if something chanced to come to light. He stretched in his chair, and began wearily to gather together the papers on his desk, upon which were lists, maps, schedules and all other things pertaining to travel possibilities from London and the surrounding area. He stood, blew out the lamp on the desk, and made his way to his bed chamber in the dark. There he undressed, tossing aside his clothes without his usual care, and, climbing into bed, fell into a fitful slumber, where young ladies with large books and teacups in their hands ran gaily through the countryside, from coach to coach, and from teashop to teashop, while he chased after them, blindfolded, stumbling over everything in his way.
The next morning saw him in a rare ill humour, but ready and determined to set aside, for a while, though most unwillingly, the search for Miss Williams. It was high time that he began the very serious but less personally engaging work entrusted to him recently. To that end, a meeting with Tim would be his first order of business.
For his part, John still had great trouble persuading himself to believe the story told him by Lord Cantering. Forgery, in many forms, was certainly nothing new, but forged banknotes, on such a scale, to be the responsibility - to be carried out at the explicit direction - of a member of the Ton, of nobility, perhaps! That there were many habits and foibles of wealthy people he, personally, viewed as reprehensible and beneath their station, he would not deny - but a conspiracy, involving the Bank of England no less, was tantamount to treason, undermining as it did the very foundations of trust in a government, and the rule of law and order, provoking and promoting suspicion in every transaction, at every level of society. Such a notion was almost frightening. John held few illusions as to the difficulties, even dangers, facing him. A man capable of this crime was one who would seek to protect himself, and his position in society, most tenaciously; such a person would not hesitate to use violence, to say nothing of lesser acts - less life-threatening but equally despicable - as a means of self-preservation.
John scrutinized the list of names given him. By some he had already added notes, as per information received from Sir John, or, in a few instances, from the old case notes of Mr Blevins. As a result of his meeting with Tim, he hoped more of the names would begin to solidify into men whose backgrounds, amusements, business dealings, choices, and, most important of all, characters, would form patterns and shapes. And from those patterns and shapes would emerge the man he was seeking.
Later that morning saw John ensconced at a table in the far corner of a tavern, as far from other patrons as possible, giving explicit instructions to his companion. "I would like you to visit every site where rumour has placed any of the recently forged bills. Find out what was passed, how much, and anything else anyone remembers around those times: any unusual visitors, unusual events, unusual talk - things of that nature. If you hear of other instances, other rumours, follow up on them as well."
"Aye, Guv'nor," replied Tim, "that's easily enough done. If I can get my hands on some of this here artwork, I s'pose you might like to take a look, eh?"
"Yes, Tim, very much so, provided I don't have to see you at the end of the hangman's rope or with a knife in your back as consequence. Be very careful how you go about this. Apparently there is a great deal at stake here, and there is as much danger of ugliness on the right side of the law as on the wrong side. I don't want you tangling with the Runners, by mistake, nor with this group of 'artists.' " John's voice was unusually stern, brooking no argument from Tim. Little did John know, as yet, how very able Tim was of holding his own, no matter what the odds or who his opponents might be. Tim acquiesced outwardly, knowing open discussion on this topic would be fruitless. He would, however, go his own way. What the Guv'nor didn't know, wouldn't trouble him. He knew quite well - and none better - how to watch his own back.
"Now, then," John continued, cautiously drawing a piece of paper from his pocket and holding it unobtrusively, looking discreetly around them to be assured that no eyes were taking note, no one who might have cause to report such a transaction to other interested parties, before passing it on to Tim. "As to the other end of this chain of 'artistry,' I should also like to know any rumours, or, preferably, real knowledge - common or otherwise - dealing with any of the gentlemen on this list." John was still a little uneasy sharing such a list with Tim - albeit names only, with nothing added - but had been convinced, by his own instincts, as well as the assurances of Sir John, who, though he did not personally know Tim, knew apparently much of him by other means, that Tim would not use the information for anything to John's later disapprobation or discredit.
Tim glanced down and nearly choked on the drink he had just partaken of, as he read some of the names. After recovering, he let out a soundless whistle. "You're havin' one on me, now, aren't you, Guv'nor?" he asked softly, his eyes narrow slits as he considered the very uncharacteristic possibility of John playing some sort of trick on him, or some manner of testing, possibly. " 'Gentlemen,' for sure!" he added, under his breath. "A rat among the pedigreed hounds, eh? And to do with the forgery; you're certain, are you, sir?"
"I am quite in earnest, Tim, and I am quite certain."
A long stare into his employer's eyes served to satisfy Tim of the absolute sincerity of these assertions, and he returned his gaze to the paper he now held, half-hidden by the sleeves of his coat.
"Rumours, you say?" he drawled, after a few minutes spent in concentrated thought. "Given a little time, I think I can do much better than that, Guv'nor."
"Time is something we may not have terribly much of, Tim, but do the best you can. Anything and everything, even seemingly innocuous and innocent details, may be vital clues, and may lead or point in directions which we might never otherwise guess or find. We'll meet every day to report progress and exchange information. If you can't meet me, leave word somehow; I'll do the same."
"What'll you be doin', sir? Hobnobbin' with some of these here gentlemen yourself?"
"I'm afraid not, Tim." John's voice still carried some pique as he recalled the very explicit, and not wholly complimentary, conditions of his employment. "I am about to meet someone who supposedly will be of very great help: a little known, but gifted artist. I'll know more once I have met him. Do you know Tupenny Alley, near Bluegate Fields, by any chance, Tim?"
"You're goin' there, Guv'nor?" Tim's voice registered horror. "That's a bleedin' Hell on earth, it is! You'll not find anythin' good nor useful in that part of London, sir. The only rats there run on four legs, that is if they can manage to avoid the dinner pots of the ever-hungry two-legged tenants, and the only artistry is that of livin' to see another day. Are you sure you wouldn't be wantin' me to come with you?"
"No," said John, slowly, considering the offer, but nevertheless deciding against it. "I think I'll go alone, today. Perhaps the next time, Tim."
"Well, if you'll forgive the advice, you'll wear your worst togs down there, Guv'nor. They'll be fit for nothin' but the rubbish heap afterwards. And watch your back, whatever you do!"
Chapter 5 ~ A Time to Plant, and a Time to Pluck Up that Which is Planted
Having changed his clothes as Tim had suggested, greeted and spoken briefly with his new footman, and avoiding in his thoughts the disapproval which Simmons, his valet, would be sure to bestow on his return, John walked the streets of London in anticipation of his meeting with the gentleman Sir John had most particularly recommended as being uniquely well-suited and qualified to help John Blevins in his endeavors.
Mr. Joshua Scribney, a man now well past his youth, of Sir John's age, had shown a prodigious talent for painting and drawing when he was but a small boy, copying any and all paintings he chanced to see, from memory alone, and rendering friends, relations, and all scenes around him, with an eye and a pen so keen, it was as if the subjects had pressed themselves onto the paper, and waited only a command to spring forth to life again. All had agreed that such talent should be carefully cultivated and tended, that it might bring forth the rich harvest so obviously prophesied by these beginnings. He had been taught by several excellent masters, who had been willing to take on this extraordinary pupil in exchange for that pupil's help, in numerous ways both humble and exalted, whenever called for. His skill had grown as he himself had, from a talented boy to a liberally educated and exceptionally well trained young man, and at twenty he had already executed works more usual for an artist of mature years to have done. He had been a well-looking young man, though diffident and detached in manner, and had not lacked for feminine admirers - none of whom he had noticed - neither among young ladies, drawn to this man who could seemingly call forth scenes and persons out of any empty piece of canvas or paper he touched, nor among their mothers, who had, despite his lack of personal background, breeding and fortune, found him nonetheless an attractive prospect as son-in-law, and had dreamt of future elevation for him, a knighthood, perhaps...
His first commission, independent of his teachers, had been for a man of large fortune, acquired in trade, who had desired to raise himself and his family in the eyes of Society through the patronage and acquisition of art in various forms. This man had had one daughter, who had soon had eyes only for the young painter, who had, in turn, had eyes only for his work, and the commission which was to see him set up in his own right and establish his standing as an artist of the first class. Joshua Scribney had been seen to be admired by the young lady, and had been assumed to be paying her his attentions, by all their acquaintance. Much to his dismay had he come to an awareness of this too late to save the characters of all involved. The father, infuriated by Joshua's pointed lack of interest in his daughter, the mother, insulted by such an assumption of indifference - for she could not believe there to be any reason for a true disinterestedness - and the daughter, mortified for her own feelings, and the expectations and gossip she herself had fueled, had united to discredit the gifted young man. They had been graced with so much success, that his reputation had been ruined before it had had time to flourish. An accusation of theft had been laid at the artist's door, to assist in obscuring the true facts of the matter, and he had narrowly escaped the gallows only by the timely intervention of Sir John Murdock, acting as John Blevins.
Sir John had just embarked on his life's work at that time; so had begun his reputation for not only neatly, discreetly and expeditiously tying up loose ends, but for pulling chestnuts out of the fire just in time to stop them exploding. So, too, had begun a lifelong friendship between these two men. With his life and hoped-for livelihood now seemingly plucked up and left for dead, Joshua Scribney might have been forced to turn to a more menial form of work for his subsistence, or to resort to work of a less than honest cast, the subtle offers of which were never lacking - for his renown had spread through the less salubrious segments of society, ever on the lookout for new talent, especially of the sort which had been tainted by scandal, and which might be available to them. Mr. Blevins had, over the ensuing years, been able to procure for him - through the many and growing connections of his own - sufficient work to allow Mr. Scribney an honest independence, using his gifts, which had then blossomed in the most unexpected places and unanticipated ways. At one time or another, Mr. Scribney had been called in, officially under a different name, to do work of diverse natures for most of the families in the Ton, as well as some families of royal descent, not only in England, but also across the channel, in France, the Netherlands, a few as far as the German and Italian states. Through the good offices of several very grateful and highly satisfied clients, he had also had opportunities of traveling for pleasure on the continent, where he had further absorbed nourishment and encouragement from the artists and work he had met with there. Thus, this artist, once fated and expected to wither and decay unseen before ever having bloomed, had - quietly, unobtrusively, slowly - yielded the harvest of his youth's promise, thriving in a manner and life unforeseen by all.
With some of this in his mind - the parts Sir John had communicated to him - and as he wandered farther and farther east across town, John Thomas began to wonder if he had transcribed the direction ill. Though he had been duly warned by Tim, his disquiet grew in proportion to the increasing decrepitude surrounding him, for the areas he now traversed in his search for the abode of Mr. Scribney were gone from bad to worse, and then continued their descent. Tim had all-too-aptly named this neighborhood. John was learning of alleys and tenements he had never heard of, though he had lived and worked in London for nearly six and one half years now. The sun shining brightly above was the one saving grace, and surely a timely blessing, for it rendered the area a miniscule amount less hideous and depressing. Maybe I should have brought Tim with me; the thought passed through his mind as he glanced round uneasily. Finally arriving at the number he sought, John looked up and down the street, then up and down the building before which he stood. He puzzled at the sight. How on earth can anything of worth, much less beauty, be created in such a place as this?
According to Sir John's information, the rooms occupied by Joshua Scribney were at the top of the building. He shook his head, took a deep breath and entered. As he crossed the threshold, a foul smell assaulted his nostrils; with his head swimming, he bolted for the door. Outside once more, pale, but with determination now becoming etched on his face, he took several deep breaths more, then as deep a one as he could hold, and re-entered the building. He found the stairs as quickly as possible, and began to climb. As he rose, step after step, and floor after floor, the malodorous vapors diminished, and other impressions crowded in on him: children crying, pots banging, voices raised in dispute and drunken argument. John wondered anew how works of art could possibly be thought of, much less brought to life and completion in such surroundings. How could one ignore - detach oneself from - such squalor? How could one concentrate?
At length, John found himself on the uppermost floor. A surprisingly clean area now greeted him, with holes in the walls and ceiling neatly, though colourfully and ingeniously, patched, with some most unorthodox materials having been used. A door stood before him, upon which was found a brass knocker surely not of English origin, so oddly shaped and styled as it was. John raised this object, tapped twice, and stood back slightly, in some apprehension of what would greet him.
The door opened after some minutes, and his first impression was one of almost blinding light, which threw the figure before him in dark relief. John threw up a hand before his eyes to shield them from the glare, and inquired, "Mr. Joshua Scribney?" At the affirmative reply, and in response to a beckoning hand, John entered the room.
As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he gazed around him in wonder. In such a place as this! The room's brightness was due to its many windows; the wall before him, and fully half the ceiling above, consisted mostly of glass, cleaned and polished to such a degree, that, without the frames, it would have appeared that the room was open to the sky. Along the more solid walls were stacked countless numbers of canvases and piles of paper of every size. Several easels stood about as well, some with paintings resting on them, in various stages of completion: mere sketches, with ghostly figures covering the surfaces as if in a netherworld of milky fog, half-finished watercolours and oils of delicate, subdued tints, and a few works nearing completion, with one in particular where several small patches of brilliant hue caught and held the eye as focal points for the whole. John stood transfixed. His deeply rooted conviction that nothing good, nothing beautiful could possibly be found in such an area of decay and despair was being disturbed and firmly shaken.
At a movement by his side, John was suddenly recalled to himself, and turned hurriedly to remedy his inattention and rudeness. "Mr. Scribney, please forgive me. I am John Blevins, a friend of Sir John Murdock." As he spoke, he recalled that he was in the presence of one who knew his mentor, the first John Blevins, longer than John Thomas Barrow had been alive, possibly more intimately than he could ever hope to, and felt a little foolish, a trifle ridiculous, at using his professional name in this introduction.
"Mr. Blevins," said the man, in even, well-modulated tones, "a pleasure to meet you, sir. Sir John has spoken well of you, and often. I have been expecting you."
At this, John raised surprised eyes to meet those of Mr. Scribney, and to fully take in his person for the first time; he saw an odd figure before him, but one that set him curiously at ease. The man he observed was taller than he, but with a stooping posture, very thin, with sparse greying hair - the scarcity of hair on his head being more than compensated for by the very full grey beard he wore. Spectacles attached to a fine chain around his neck gave him a scholarly appearance. Mild, deep blue eyes were watching John's appraisal with candour, intelligence and a hint of humour in their depths.
"Well," Mr. Scribney asked, with amusement evident in his voice, "am I what you expected?"
John flushed to the roots of his hair, as he realized that he had been staring, as though seeing some otherworldly being, and was further discomfited by the man's perceptive and candid question, but responded quickly. "In truth, sir, I did not know what to expect. Sir John told me some of your history, that I might understand why he suggested your assistance - why he was so persistent in sending me to you - and some of your relationship with him. More than that, he did not relate."
"Let us sit, then, and be easy," suggested the painter, leading the way to two unexpectedly comfortable chairs set before a small stove.
John decided, given the man's familiarity with Sir John, and apparently with some of his own history, as well, to plunge in without much preamble, "You said you were expecting me, sir. Did Sir John give you an idea of the situation?"
"Actually, no, as it was not from Sir John that I heard of your intended visit." At the astonished and disturbed look in John's eyes, a low chuckle escaped Mr. Scribney, and increasing humour became evident on his face. "I have many unusual resources, Mr. Blevins. Presumably that is why Sir John sent you to me. Now, I will assume that your work is to do with the current wave of forged banknotes in London. Am I correct?" At John's silent nod, he continued, "And you have been retained by Lord Cantering to assist in this matter." At John's second nod - which followed only after his mouth had fallen open briefly and been snapped shut once more - and, seeing him quite disconcerted, ready with questions, Mr. Scribney raised his hand, a well-kept hand with long, slender, supple fingers and sensitive fingertips. "As I have said, I have unusual resources. But, I will tantalize you no longer. Ask your own questions, and we shall see what can be done."
John remained silent for several moments, arranging and re-arranging his thoughts to fit and follow the revelations of the past minutes. He then spoke concisely, laying out his commission and queries in a well-ordered manner.
Over the next hour, John had his forbearance severely tested, as he awaited answers, or, indeed, words of any sort, from his companion. Mr. Scribney seemed to have no regard for time, as he perused a list of names given him by John, the self-same list that Tim was in possession of. The artist's reaction, however, was much different than that man's had been. Showing no surprise, he first read the names slowly, silently mouthing each one. After reading each name a second time, he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair for several minutes, before continuing with the next name. Throughout, he spoke not a word to John, and hushed several attempts on John's part to interrupt with thoughts and suggestions of his own. He finally set the paper onto his lap, and raised his gaze to meet that of John, who was now more than a little impatient at such a delay.
"This is an interesting assemblage of persons, Mr. Blevins," he began. "I am acquainted with all but one personally. I have been in their homes here in London, and, in a few instances, at their country estates as well."
"Then, what can you tell me of them, sir?" asked John, relieved that the point was being come to at long last.
"I can tell you that Lord Barking has five children, none of whom can sit or stand still for more than five minutes at a time; that Sir Woolwich has a wife who is truly a rarity, a most beautiful woman, though difficult to capture on paper or canvas, or to do justice to; that Mr. Rainham treats his dogs better than his servants or family; that--"
John interrupted this mild recital, "I meant, sir, what can you tell me of them as potential participants or directors in this forgery business?"
The blue eyes looked at John, not with equal impatience, nor offense at being interrupted, but with humour and tolerance for the youth of his guest, and for his obvious proclivity for an efficient, expeditious handling of business matters. "Ah, but one can know much of a man's character by observing his household, habits and near surroundings, and it is the character which will decide who will stoop to such deceit, and, possibly, such desperation. I have no magic arts to look into any of these men's hearts, Mr. Blevins, nor am I privileged to have their confidence in matters which would be to their obvious discredit. Come, let us talk of each one; I will tell what I know, you will tell what you know, possibly of a different nature, and we shall both see what patterns emerge that might lead to this man you seek."
Chapter 5, Part 2 ~ A Time to Plant, and a Time to Pluck Up That Which is Planted
Several days after her arrival in Auldbury, Beth was surprised to hear someone approaching the cottage, not long after Mrs. Taylor had left it for her shop. Curious, Beth moved to investigate, and, passing a window, was surprised to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Taylor herself. Assuming she had forgotten something of importance, Beth went to meet her, and to offer her help.
As she neared the door, Beth could hear Mrs. Taylor speaking with someone. Whom has she brought? Beth peered out the window closest to the entryway and saw two women following Mrs. Taylor, arm in arm. One was small and slim, with light brown hair neatly but plainly arranged, her face, at the moment, turned in the direction of the garden and the flowers there. A blue bonnet hung by its ribbons from her hand. The second woman was also short, more plump than her companion, with hair not quite hidden by a stiff white bonnet, out of which a face beamed with good humour. Beth gasped in surprise, and pleasure, for this was a face she recollected very well, indeed, though the hair surrounding it was now rather greyer than it had been those many years ago.
She hurried to replace the curtain she had lifted, and prepared to meet and greet the visitors. Just as she reached the door, it opened, and Mrs. Taylor stood back to allow her guests to precede her, smiling encouragingly as she spied her houseguest hanging back a little, suddenly nervous and shy, but soon drawn forward by her kind words.
"Beth, my dear, here are two very good friends of mine I would like you to meet. Miss Tabitha Ross, Miss Rose Black, this is my guest, Miss Beth Willison. Miss Rose has an unexpected morning of leisure, as her students are wanted at home this morning, and so will not take their customary lessons. Jenny has wanted for some time now to show her something most anxiously, so today was looked upon as a wonderful opportunity. Miss Ross, having no critical patients at the moment, was fortunately free to come along as well, and both have expressed a desire to meet you, my dear."
Greetings were exchanged on all sides. "I'm happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Black, Miss Ross," said Beth politely, as she curtseyed.
"Please," returned the slim woman, "do call me Miss Rose, as Jenny does, and indeed, most of the village. Even though my older sisters have married, and I am the only Miss Black remaining, I still prefer Miss Rose. I'm quite comfortable with it after so many years, and do not know how to answer to anything else, I'm afraid," she smiled, her countenance made years younger by the softening influence of cheer.
"Of course, Miss Rose," replied the younger woman, "and I would like it very much if you would call me Miss Beth, or simply Beth, as Mrs. Taylor does. I don't always feel grown enough to be a lady, or to deserve such an address," she added quietly, with an abashed look at Mrs. Taylor.
As the visitors rid themselves of hats and wraps, Beth looked curiously at both women: the one of whom she had heard so much from Jenny, as her teacher and friend, and the other, as one who had given so much comfort to Eliza Brandon and Beth thirteen years ago. She followed, as the two women, arm in arm once more, walked to the parlour, and once there, to two chairs, Miss Ross quickly removing some small items which were in the way.
Miss Rose sat gracefully, and turned to face her friend, who now spoke while settling into her own chair. "You are most welcome to our village, Miss Beth. We hope you will find your time here pleasant."
"I'm sure I shall, Miss Ross," replied Beth, deeming this the most acceptable and politic response, but feeling it truthfully as well.
"Well," interposed Mrs. Taylor, who had followed them to the room, and waited to see them comfortably seated, "I must be returning to the village now, else someone finds the office locked, and decides to make a complaint." The serious nature of these words was belied by the smile on her face. "Although, as my earliest regular visitor is now here," nodding at Miss Ross, "I suppose I have little to fear! Please take some tea, if you would care to; Hannah will be happy to prepare it, I'm sure, while you three get acquainted." With that, she left the cottage once more, and, with quick steps soon fading away, retraced her way of earlier.
A brief silence ensued, broken when Hannah appeared, with Jenny close on her heels, both having heard the guests arrive, and being come to welcome them. After more familiar greetings with great affection and pleasure on all sides, Hannah went off to the kitchen to assemble some refreshment, while Jenny departed to fetch her new doll, of which she had talked so much to Miss Rose. On her return, she laid the doll carefully in her friend's lap. Miss Rose lifted the doll, holding it to stand in her lap with her left hand, while with her right hand gently stroking the fine hair, tracing the contours of the molded face, fingering the material of the dress and its trim, and disarranging the skirts carefully to feel of the slippers adorning the doll's tiny feet. When finished with this silent inventory, she cradled the doll gently in her lap, and, smiling, said, "What a beautiful doll she is, Jenny. I can see why you like her so much. What soft materials, what a lovely dress, what beautiful hair she has. I have forgotten, now, what colour did you tell me her hair is, and the colour of her dress?"
Beth glanced up in surprise at the question, paying no mind to the replies made by Jenny. She just now realized the reason for Miss Ross walking arm in arm with her friend outside the house, and within it as well, albeit naturally and quite discreetly, and for the bright hazel eyes which did not fix themselves on anything in particular until spoken to. This woman was blind! Beth's observation was confirmed as Hannah brought tea and biscuits. As she placed a cup already prepared before Miss Rose, she said quietly, "Your tea is directly before you, Miss Rose." That lady, removing the doll from her lap to a footstool beside her chair, slowly reached out 'til her fingers touched the table in front of her; she then slid one hand over the surface to the edge of the saucer, lifting it carefully with both hands, and placing it in her lap. And she is a teacher, thought Beth, in sudden recollection. However does she manage?
The next minutes passed pleasantly in conversation, touching not on Beth and her history, as she had anticipated and feared, but on many things regarding Auldbridge and daily life here. The subjects - the histories - which would have interested Beth most at the moment, however, were not touched upon, nor had she the courage to ask.
Rose Black was the youngest of four daughters. Her father had been a schoolmaster in London, her mother, before her marriage, a teacher of young ladies' accomplishments: music, modern languages and art. In these footsteps had Miss Rose ably and eagerly followed. At eighteen, a comely and clever young lady, accomplished in music and in painting, and well able to teach all basic subjects, she had been so fortunate as to find favor with Lord and Lady Auldbury when they had sought a governess for their own two children, then four and six years old. She had been installed at Auldbury Hall, and had been happy in her duties and situation there, as well as in the growing, and most welcome, attentions of his lordship's valet, a young man, then, of two and twenty. After two years, they had been on the point of an official betrothal, when an epidemic of sickness had swept through the neighborhood. It had not condescended to afflict only those of lower standing, nor had it remained among the ranks of the rich; it had not discriminated with regard to wealth or position, but had claimed the lives of Lady Auldbury and her children, among many others. As for Miss Rose, the disease had settled in her eyes, and had claimed her sight, though leaving her alive to bear with this loss. Bitter and self-pitying at first, frightened of what the future would hold, feeling herself no longer of any value as a teacher or as a wife, she had broken the engagement, against all the fervent and most persuasive arguments made by her beloved. She had refused the charity of Lord Auldbury, who, though devastated by his own loss, had still felt responsibility for the young woman who had so ably taught his children and had been so much loved by them. She had likewise refused the charity offered by her sisters and their husbands, and had instead removed to the cottage occupied by Miss Tabitha Ross, at that lady's kind invitation.
There, painfully and slowly, she had taught herself some independence, and had steeled herself against the hardships to come. The worst of these were never realized. The various families of Auldbridge came to her aid, without her knowing the full extent of that aid. Villagers sent their children to her for instruction, despite her bitter protestations that a blind woman could teach nothing. Her blindness, however, having come after her formal - and quite extensive - education had been completed, had left her with many resources, unrecognized at first. She had, unwittingly, memorized many things, and was able to clearly remember long passages from books, from literature as well as history. Her talent for language was undiminished, and her ear seemed only to improve with the loss of her eyesight. She also developed an aptitude for calculating sums and doing other mathematical manipulations in her head, and so was able to teach many of the same subjects which she had formerly taught. Adjustments were made, so that she could correct, help and encourage, though unable to see. The parents of her students became participants in their children's learning, and learned many a thing themselves, often unconscious, though, of having done so. With Miss Ross' help, confidence, relentless persistence and persuasion, Miss Rose had been able to modify and even expand her teaching to accommodate many young pupils, whose families were only too glad to boast that their teacher had once taught the children of nobility, and only too willing, out of their own often meager resources, to help this young woman whose hopes for a normal life and family of her own had been so cruelly dashed. Over twenty years, 'Miss Rose' had taught many of the children in the village, and even some from surrounding areas. Only in painting and in music - in reproducing scenes on paper, and realizing the works of composers in song - had she lost things not to be reworked or revived in other forms. Learning piano music by memory, or by ear, had always been difficult for her, so there were only a few pieces which she could still haltingly play. Her voice, once sweet and clear, was stilled for many years as well, though owing more to her sadness than to any loss of ability. Her paintings of village life, rendered by a keen yet gentle eye, filling the walls of her present home, were the only reminder, the only testimony, of that once-practiced gift.
Tabitha Ross was a native of Auldbridge; the daughter - the only child - of the apothecary. Her mother had died when she was but six years old, and from that time on she had been a most constant companion to, and student of, her father, absorbing lessons of a kind most unusual for any young lady. At seventeen, she had become the attendant of the dowager Lady Hartworth, an aunt of Lord Auldbury. This august and formidable woman, never married, had had a love of travel and adventure, somewhat unseemly in a lady, but tolerated by her acquaintances because of her wealth and social rank. Miss Ross had been privileged to travel with her, and to see many beautiful and curious things. She herself had sought out new and novel treatments in healing wherever they had traveled, often in response to the many eager and urgent queries from her father, still in Auldbridge, and had learned much to relieve sufferings of various kinds. Upon the death of his aunt, and the much-mourned death soon thereafter of Mr Ross, Lord Auldbury had offered Miss Ross a small cottage in the village, in return for which she would tend the villagers who had need of her skills. This she had done with much cheerfulness, soon becoming a favorite with all, from the very youngest, many of whom she helped into the world, to the very oldest, whose last days she often oversaw and strove to ease the discomfort of. Officially and openly she was not known as an apothecary - that would not have been tolerated - but she was known as an angel of mercy, for whom no person was too low, too poor, too dirty, or too ignorant to help. She, alone, had been able to persuade Miss Rose to resume as normal a life as possible after her illness, when that lady had been in the depths of despair, and she had done as much, and more, for many in the community.
Miss Ross had no income at all in pounds per annum; rather, it came in the form of loaves of bread, dozens of eggs, hindquarters of pork or mutton, quarts of milk, wheels of cheese, logs of wood for the fireplace, and bushels of apples, pears, or strawberries, even bolts of material and barely worn, or outright new, garments. No need of hers, nor any of Miss Rose, was left unmet for long. If something needed repair, someone happened by who could manage it; if something were needed from London, or some other distance, Mr Jones suddenly recalled a piece of business to take him there, or Mr Smith would discover an urgent desire to travel in that very direction. Word of more difficult tasks would make its way to the Hall, where, with the blessing and approval of its owner, labours of various forms were carried out on behalf of these women. The small cottage which was their home, who between them did so much for good in the village, in their individual and different ways, was a beloved place to many, and many good things had found their way there over the years, to make their lives more pleasant; though by income alone, the two would have been reckoned as very poor indeed.
Of these histories and matters, Beth knew nothing. She was only privy to the results of what had gone before, what had been woven into the lives of these women by the tragedies and triumphs, the trials and the daily tasks of the past years. She, in her own romantic fancy, did think she could discern a hint of something - sadness, perhaps, or regret - in the unseeing eyes of Miss Rose, which was only completely absent in moments of wholehearted merriment... In other respects, however, she simply saw two women of a certain age, neither with claims of outstanding beauty or charm, neither in a position of honour or privilege - not by birth, nor situation, nor by the most commonly held virtue of wealth - neither having married nor having attained the relative respectability of widowhood, yet both brimming with good cheer, clearly fond of each other, and bearing with each other. She saw nothing to envy, and much to pity, taking in their appearances. Yet, there was a life and a light in both, unaccounted for by their apparent circumstances. Beth wondered at it greatly; perhaps... perhaps her ideas on 'old maids' would need to be revised. She wondered, as well, with some trepidation, whether their present kindness to her would survive the knowledge of the disgrace of her own troubles. But all these thoughts she set aside; for the present, she was in pleasant company, treated as an equal in this conversation, and enjoyed herself much.