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Chapter 6, Part 5 ~ A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh
It is, perhaps, possible, contrary to universally accepted custom, to live one's entire life without regarding a single birthday - that relentless turning of the calendar, season after season, year upon year, past the anniversary of one's birth - though most unusual. For the young, denied the celebrated delights reserved for the more mature, the calendar advances all too slowly, while among the less youthful are those who would stop its forward march altogether. Some isolated souls, of both youthful and aged years, plead complete ignorance of the calendar, or indeed, of what year of our Lord it may, at any given time, be. Among those of more advanced years, some may feign a disregard of, or may attempt to deny, time's passing, while striving to retain or reclaim a youth whose being, deeds and happenings grow to mythical proportions with the passage of each affectedly disregarded or denied year. For a happy few, a birthday is simply an occasion to delight in the attentions, good wishes and gifts offered by loved ones and acquaintances, and to delight in life itself, the most precious gift of all. And so it was for Jenny Taylor.
On this mid-July morning, the sun shone brightly, and Beth looked forward to the day's occupation with great anticipation. This was Jenny's designated birthday, the twentieth anniversary of her arrival in Auldbridge. Special things had been planned, of which Jenny was vaguely aware, although not all had been revealed or fully explained to her. Beth was helping Mrs. Taylor in the kitchen, while Jenny and Hannah were busy in tidying the rest of the cottage, a clear conscience with regard to household tasks being deemed a desirable requisite for the enjoyment of all the pleasurable diversions to come. As Beth put away freshly washed dishes, she heard peals of laughter coming from the other rooms.
Mrs. Taylor looked up with a smile from the great basket she was carefully filling, then sighed. "I don't know what I shall do without Hannah. She does so well with Jenny, and Jenny loves her so; it will be difficult for us both when she leaves. It seems only yesterday that she came to help us, a shy, thirteen-year old girl, ashamed of her clumsy movements, though at the same time so very eager to please, and to learn. I do not know where the years have gone!"
"Is Hannah leaving? Why?"
"She will be getting married soon, in another fortnight, and will be occupied with her own household then, although she has kindly offered to come several times a week, for a time, at least, as she will still be close by."
"Hannah is to be married! To whom? She has never told me of this!" Beth was surprised to find how very hurt she was that Hannah had not shared this interesting confidence with her during the many times they had worked and spoken together. Beth now recalled that the maid had rarely talked of herself, rather more of her father, her brothers, or of happenings in the village, when she was not asking of and listening to Beth's own amusing anecdotes.
Mrs. Taylor, hearing the distress in Beth's voice, replied gently, "Hannah does not speak of her private thoughts or concerns to many, Beth, whether of joy or of sorrow. It is no sign of a lack of affection for you, or of distrust. She and Stephen have not announced it publicly, only to their families and a very few friends. They have little in the way of fortune, and feel that this is more fitting for them than the attention which wider knowledge would bring - that this is a private matter."
"Hannah is marrying Stephen? Stephen Hobart? The one who works for Lord Auldbury?" Beth was now even more taken aback, and a little chagrined, as she saw her own imaginings of a match between Hannah and Mr. Grahame crumble and fall. Yet, she found it difficult to picture the handsome, lithe young man, exuding confidence and capability, and the plain, awkward, modest young woman, as a suitable couple.
"Why, yes; do you know him?"
The look of puzzlement and injury on her face was supplanted by a wide grin. "I met him in the village not long ago." She giggled as she recalled the circumstances. The humorous encounter lost nothing in the retelling as she described the meeting with the dog and its comical baggage, Miss Goldsmith, and the other participants.
Amusement lit up Mrs. Taylor's face as well, and she began to chuckle. "That must have been quite a sight. Poor Miss Goldsmith! She must have been very embarrassed with so many of her garments on public view, as it were, and before such gentlemen, no less. I am glad the girls were sent after her. About the dog - I must say I agree with Mr. Grahame. I do not see where Stephen will find the time to help the girls train it, though it would be just like him to try. He delights in pleasing them when he can. He has done many a kind thing for Jenny, as well. Actually," lowering her voice, and glancing toward the door to make certain her daughter was not nearby, "he has arranged something very special for Jenny today."
A short while later saw Mrs. Taylor, Jenny, Beth and Hannah on their way to a sunny meadow near the Hall. Once there, they were joined by Miss Ross and Miss Rose, Phoebe and Julia, and Mr. Grahame. Between them all, they had brought a sumptuous repast, which they spread under a great chestnut tree, enjoying its shade. The sun was now directly overhead, and making its warming presence felt, although a fresh breeze rustling through the trees and rippling the grasses in green and golden waves kept the heat from becoming oppressive.
They enjoyed their meal, sitting as and where they chose, Jenny sharing the care of the doll she had brought with the two small girls. They had almost done eating, when a neighing brought all their heads up to see what very much resembled a parade nearing them. Four horses and a wagon made up this procession, the first horse ridden by Lord Auldbury, the second by Stephen Hobart, and the third and fourth each carrying two small children. "Nieces and nephews of Jenny, come from Deepwell Farm," whispered Hannah to Beth.
Jenny was to ride today, and anyone else who cared to. This surprise had been suggested by Stephen, on a hint from Hannah, and enthusiastically agreed to by Lord Auldbury. The horses brought had been carefully chosen for their placid temperaments, and were all accustomed to inexperienced or awkward riders of all ages and sizes. Jenny was almost beside herself with excitement, and was restrained from showing all her enthusiasm with some difficulty, being firmly reminded that she must be very quiet and gentle in the presence of these large animals. The riders dismounted - or merrily tumbled off, in the case of the children - and the horses were readied for new riders. Mounting blocks from the wagon were placed beside three of them by several grooms from the stables, who had followed after their master.
Mrs. Taylor and Beth quickly made known their intentions of remaining on the ground. As guest of honour, Jenny found herself seated first, on the horse ridden to the meadow by Lord Auldbury: a tall chestnut mare, with a broad white blaze on her face, three white legs, and eyes of a most unusual pale blue. After a number of low words from Stephen, Jenny sat absolutely still. As he gave over the reins to one of the grooms, and moved toward the next horse, Jenny announced, "My horse's name is Stephen Hobart." Good-natured smiles blossomed on every face.
"Now, Jenny," interjected her mother, "it will be too confusing to have live horses and persons with the same names here today. Stephen will tell us each horse's name. They will much prefer their own names, I am sure, and will not recognize others."
Stephen turned back to look up at the young woman, and grinned. "You are riding 'Lyta', Jenny, named so because of her blue eyes, just like two full moons."
"I like blue. It's my favorite colour. Thank you, Stephen! This is Lyta," Jenny informed everyone, then fell silent, waiting quietly for the others.
Much to Beth's surprise, Miss Rose had also elected to ride. She watched with interest as the blind woman was carefully guided to the next horse: a small bay mare - deep chocolate brown, with glossy black legs, mane and tail, and the smallest of white stars on her forehead - named Minerva. "How appropriate," whispered Mrs. Taylor to Beth, "and an old friend, if I'm not much mistaken." Miss Rose mounted gracefully, almost without assistance, then sat erect and at ease, gathering the reins firmly into her hands.
Miss Ross had good-naturedly agreed to join the other ladies on horseback, and stepped on the mounting block near the third horse, introduced as Apollo, a well-proportioned grey gelding. As the rest of the company looked on, she lifted her right leg to place it in the stirrup. Stephen, Mr. Grahame and Lord Auldbury all rushed toward her to correct her choice. The quiet nature of the great animal was proved by the calm manner in which it endured this unexpected degree of attention, continuing to stand still, with only an ear twitching back once or twice. Miss Ross looked down, and, realizing what she had been about to do, laughed aloud. "Well, now, that would have been a sight, would it not? I do believe I have managed to do that once before, and I must say I much prefer riding so that I can see where I am going, rather than where I have been!"
The others joined in her laughter; with Stephen's help, she was soon safely, and properly, seated on her mount. Stephen remounted his own tall horse, Mercury; drawing near to Jenny, he attached a short line to a ring on the underside of Lyta's noseband, with which he would lead her. The reins were given to Jenny to hold, but were left long and loose. Another, much longer, line was given to Miss Ross and Miss Rose, to hold between them. They began walking, slowly, with Stephen and Jenny ahead, and the other two following. Miss Ross proved herself quite capable on horseback, much more so than her attempt at mounting would have indicated; Miss Rose moved as one with Minerva, seeming as comfortable and at home as if she were sitting in a chair in her cottage.
The children had greeted one another in the manner of children everywhere, and were soon occupied in games of various sorts. The adults retired to the comfortable shade of the chestnut tree, and the remains of the now-forgotten feast. Beth turned to watch the riders: the sheer delight on Jenny's face, the joviality of Miss Ross, and the calm competence of Miss Rose.
"How well Miss Rose rides!" observed Beth. "She looks as though she has been riding so all her life. Her balance is remarkable - if I so much as close my eyes when I am walking, or even standing at home, I feel as though I would fall!"
Lord Auldbury was looking toward the riders, as well. "She has been riding since she was a small girl, Miss Beth, and was obviously well-taught. As governess for my children, she accompanied them as they learned to ride. She rode well enough that I permitted her to go out alone; one of her greatest pleasures was to ride about the countryside, with a book or her sketchpad with her. Minerva was always her favorite mount, though quite a bit more spirited then, as a three-year old, than she is today. Miss Rose had a special way with her, and, I believe, taught her better manners than my groom at that time had been able to teach her. Previously, the mare had only been ridden by men. Miss Rose made her fit to be ridden by ladies, as well."
"Was she never afraid to ride alone? Did she never fall?"
"No, very little frightened her, then, apparently. Her seat was excellent; if she ever fell, she did not tell anyone of it. She also rode in the company of friends, from time to time, but she seemed to find a special joy in her solitary rambles."
"I think her inability to move about the countryside without assistance, whether on horseback, or on foot, has been one of her greatest frustrations since her blindness, this forced dependence on others for every step she takes outside her cottage," added Mrs. Taylor, in a low voice. "She was so fiercely independent, and determined to do everything for herself."
"I am sorry she was forced to learn a lesson of accepting help from others through such a terrible ordeal. I can understand a little of the indignities she has, most likely, suffered." Mr. Grahame's tone was sympathetic. Turning to Beth, he asked, in a lighter tone, "Do you not ride, Miss Beth?"
Beth looked uneasily to Mrs. Taylor before answering. "I... I do, a little, but it has been some time since I last rode, and feel it best to remain on the ground for today."
"Perhaps some other time, then. This is a fine area for riding. I am sure you would find much to enjoy."
Seeing that Beth was uncomfortable in providing a plausible excuse for not riding at some time in the future, while avoiding the true reason, Mrs. Taylor intervened, drawing attention away from the girl, "Why are you not riding yourself, today, Mr. Grahame?"
"Perhaps I shall, perhaps not; we shall see." He answered the good-natured challenge with a grin.
The conversation lagged now, as the afternoon heat, following a satisfying meal, combined with the drone of insects and the sweet scent of fresh grass and wildflowers to produce an almost hypnotic effect, inducing a somnolent state among the party. The only interruption came when Hannah was called over by the children to settle a dispute regarding one of their games.
Stephen and Jenny had circled the large meadow a number of times, and were on its far side; near them, Miss Ross and Miss Rose were emerging from the woods, into which they had disappeared for a short while. A tall masculine figure suddenly appeared from the direction of the village. Spying the persons he sought, he closed the distance between himself and the group under the tree with long, hurried paces. The newcomer, Mr. Burke, a little out of breath, as if he had run some little way, went directly to Lord Auldbury and Mrs. Taylor. Observing the grave set of Mr. Burke's countenance, Mr. Grahame turned to join them; upon hearing the explanation for the man's unexpected arrival, the vicar strode off toward the riders. Mrs. Taylor called to Hannah, who had continued to oversee and participate in the children's activities.
While the horses turned back, at a few words from Mr. Grahame, Mr. Burke spoke gently to Hannah. "I'm afraid your father has been taken ill, Miss Hannah. Young Ralph Gilbert is with him now, and Mr. Hobart. But it would be good for you and Miss Ross to go to him as soon as may be."
At the reference to Miss Ross, implying a more serious condition than she had ever witnessed in her father, Hannah paled, and Mrs. Taylor put her arm around her as she swayed a little. "What is wrong with him?" she managed to ask.
"I can not say. I am sure it will be best for Miss Ross to see him, and to determine that herself."
With this evasive and alarming reply, spoken gravely, without the relief of a comforting look or tone of voice, Hannah grew even whiter, and was gently lowered to sit on the ground by Mrs. Taylor and Lord Auldbury. Beth hurried to pour her a glass of wine, and to hold it to her lips when the maid's own hands were found to be too unsteady for this simple task.
The riders had, by this time, returned. Stephen vaulted from his horse and hurried to Hannah, kneeling beside her, with one arm around her shoulders to support her, his other hand reaching for hers, which lay cold and trembling in her lap. Her countenance continued to reflect anxiety, and the beginnings of fear. He looked up, addressing Mrs. Taylor. "If Hannah is able to ride, I will take her with me, and Miss Ross can ride with us, as well. That will surely be the fastest way to return to the village - if, of course, I may, my lord."
This last, directed at Lord Auldbury, was immediately answered in the affirmative. "Of course; you must go at once. We will see to all here."
"I don't know if Hannah will manage--"
Mrs. Taylor was interrupted by Hannah. "Of course I can ride! I must! We must go directly!" Some colour had returned to Hannah's cheeks, though her legs buckled beneath her as she jumped up, belying her confident assertion. Only the prompt action of her fiancé, catching her quickly about the waist, prevented her collapse to the ground. She was insistent, however, despite the murmurs of doubt and concern from Mrs. Taylor. With Stephen on her right, and Mr. Grahame on her left, supporting and assisting her - her awkward gait more troublesome than usual - she moved toward the horses, still standing obediently, almost motionless, where Stephen had left them. The lines between the horses had been removed, a groom having come to watch over Jenny and Lyta, at a glance and a gesture from Lord Auldbury. Mr. Burke, now recovered from his exertion, and after a brief hesitation, went to stand near Minerva and Miss Rose, resting one hand on the horse's shoulder. Lord Auldbury and Mr. Grahame spoke quietly with Miss Ross, still seated on her horse; the nurse then addressed Hannah, "Come, my dear, we will go as quickly as possible. I am sure your father will be happy to see you, and we will do whatever we can to help him."
In answer, Hannah allowed Stephen to assist her in mounting his own horse. He quickly mounted behind her, and encircled her with his arms, holding her securely as she swayed once more, and seemed in danger of falling. She leaned back, and was steadied, smiling weakly and nodding in response to a whispered query and reassurance, close by her ear. With Miss Ross following closely behind, they rode swiftly toward the village.
"Where is Hannah going, mother?" asked Jenny, as they disappeared from sight.
"Hannah's father is ill, Jenny, and he needs her. Hannah, Stephen and Miss Ross are going, now, to take care of him. We will remain here. Lord Auldbury and Mr. Burke will help with the horses, if need be, so that you may continue riding, if you like."
"I would be glad to allow Phoebe or Julia to ride now, if they would care to." Miss Rose's face bespoke her distress and sympathy at the unexpected interruption of their enjoyable diversion. The two young girls, not yet understanding what had brought about the change in the persons and mood of the gathering, and having patiently awaited their turn, happily accepted this offer.
Mr. Burke stood to assist Miss Rose as she dismounted. He caught her as her feet reached the ground; she started a little at his touch. With a visible effort, she composed herself, and was at ease once more as she turned to thank him. A groom came to lift both Phoebe and Julia to the horse's back, and to walk beside them, joining Jenny as she was led, and continuing their circuit of the field. The other children now walked and skipped beside the horses, at a familiar but respectful distance, chattering alternately amongst themselves and with the riders.
Mr. Burke and Miss Rose were joined where they still stood by the remaining adults. "What more can you tell us, Burke? What has happened?" Lord Auldbury urgently voiced the queries which all wished to hear answered.
"I was passing through the village, my lord, when Ralph Gilbert came running out of Mr. Burns' house. He was white as a ghost. It seems he calls on Mr. Burns quite often. Today, there was no answer to his knock, nor to his hail; he entered, as he had been invited to previously. He simply assumed the old man not to have heard him - his hearing has become quite poor of late, apparently - and was shocked to find Mr. Burns crumpled on the kitchen floor near the fireplace, unconscious. He tried to speak with him, but, received no reply. Not knowing whether or not to move him, he left him be and ran out to seek help. Having, myself, little experience with illness, though enough to see that the man is still alive, I, too, was reluctant to attempt anything, save to rest his head upon a pillow, and thought it best to bring Miss Ross as quickly as possible. Since I knew of the plans for Miss Jenny today, and that Miss Ross and Miss Hannah would be here as well, I offered to fetch them. Before I came, I stopped and asked Mr. Hobart to keep Ralph company, so that he would not be there alone."
"Good thought, Burke. Hobart will see to anything possible in the meanwhile, I am sure. This must have taken the boy aback, and been quite a shock."
"I expect so, my lord. He was collected enough to look for help, though, and not lose his head entirely. His voice was quite unsteady, yet, he was able to explain the situation clearly. It speaks well for him."
"Indeed."
The others had listened to this story with expressions of concern evident on every face. Mr. Grahame now joined the discussion. "I will go later, after Miss Ross has had some time to examine Mr. Burns, and see if there is anything I may do, sir. Perhaps a physician will be needed from London."
"If so, I will send Stephen to fetch one directly. Miss Ross will be the best judge, I am sure. I will accompany you, Grahame, and speak with Miss Ross myself. We shall do whatever is necessary, whatever possible."
On this uncertain note, all discussion ceased.
The day was no less sunny, nor the weather less pleasant, after Hannah, Miss Ross and Stephen left, yet a cloud seemed to have descended to dull the previous joys and pleasures for most of the company. Though Jenny understood the seriousness of illness, and the possibility and reality of death, she placed her simple trust in Miss Ross' abilities and judgement, and in her mother's assurances. Her delight in the gifts offered her that day remained undiminished, even as she often spoke of Mr. Burns, hoping aloud that he would soon be well again, and that Miss Ross would help him get better.
The party continued with several more turns for all the children on the two remaining horses, this being a welcome opportunity for Phoebe and Julia - their father not keeping any saddle horses himself - as well as for Jenny. Miss Rose rode again also, no less competently or confidently than earlier in the day, though with rather a more distracted air. Mr. Burke rode at the same time - revealing his own excellent horsemanship - and stayed close by her, as if to ensure her safety, as there was no line between their mounts. The two horses touched noses from time to time, and nickered softly, much like two old friends enjoying a conversation, and reliving former meetings. Their riders were, perhaps understandably, subdued, but Beth thought she noticed a tension in both persons unaccounted for by the day's sad happenings. Although they rode side by side as though accustomed to such an outing, there was little conversation between them. She dismissed it, however, as a product of her fancy. After all, I was so very wrong about the possibility of a match between Hannah and the vicar! Besides, they are surely both too polite, too old... She scoffed at her own thoughts, even as she watched them closely, but saw no marked notice or attention given by either. The two circled the meadow, winding their way through the trees at its edge from time to time, and returned in much the same manner and spirits.
It was late afternoon when the horses - ridden once again by Jenny's nieces and nephews - and the grooms, left for the Auldbury stables, while the rest returned slowly to the village on foot. While Phoebe and Julia, their energy unflagging, walked, skipped and raced along the path, Miss Rose accepted Mr. Burke's arm, Jenny walked between her mother and Lord Auldbury, and Beth found herself beside Mr. Grahame.
"Do you think Mr. Burns will recover soon, Mr. Grahame?" Beth ventured the question after they had walked several minutes in silence, each immersed in his own thoughts.
"I can not tell you, Miss Beth, as I have no idea of what might be the matter. We shall have to wait and see what the medical opinion is. Miss Ross will do all she is able, and she is, indeed, a most capable woman. If she is any doubt whatsoever, she will not hesitate to call for a physician from London." They walked a few steps more before he continued, his thoughts evidently having moved on. "I am very glad that, whatever the circumstances, Hannah is here with her father, so that he is not alone. His other children live away from here, so Hannah is, and will be, a great comfort to him;" adding, as if musing to himself, "he is growing older."
"But... Mr. Burns is not so old, is he?" She spoke without considering whether this was a fit question for her to pose.
"I do not know how old he is." The vicar's face was transformed by a smile as he glanced at the youthful, blooming face beside him. "To some, he would be deemed very old, to others, though perhaps not as great a number, he would be reckoned as still quite young."
"Might he... die?"
The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared, "I can not answer that, either, Miss Beth. He has lived a good while, and has had difficult times and joyous times, with his family and in his work. I certainly hope he will live to see many more years of such, but that is not for me to know or decide. That is the province of God alone."
Chapter 6, Part 6 ~ A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh
"Why did he not tell me?"
Hannah's was a plaintive cry of bewilderment, born of shock and grief. She had come to Mrs. Taylor the day after Jenny's birthday, the day after her father had taken ill. A physician had been sent for from London, had come and gone.
The carpenter had been conscious again upon the arrival of Hannah and the nurse, and had disclaimed any need of special care, but his wishes had, in this case, been overridden. The nurse had firmly recommended a physician be sent for, and this recommendation Lord Auldbury had just as firmly seconded. Their decision was not to be gainsaid, and Mr. Burns had given in, albeit grumbling that he was in no need of such a person. Stephen had been dispatched at once, and had returned with a gentleman well known to Miss Ross, a man eminent in his field. After examining the patient, his opinion had, unhappily, been the same as hers. He had expressed his sympathy, and, upon recommending a course of action, had returned to London late in the evening, regretfully refusing Lord Auldbury's proffered hospitality to remain the night, citing a critical patient under his care, and in need of his presence. Mr. Burns had remained under the watchful eye of Miss Ross.
Hannah Burns was the youngest of nine children, the only girl; her mother had died a few years after Hannah's birth. She had been raised and cared for - spoiled and admonished, teased and defended, and loved - by her father and brothers. The brothers had, one by one, moved away from Auldbridge, some no farther than London, some as far away as Mr. Burns' native Scottish highlands, a few to sail the high seas, most to marry, leaving Hannah alone, at last, with their father. Over the years, Hannah had increasingly turned to Mrs. Taylor - as her playmate's mother, and as a woman available to any village child in need of friendly, motherly care - for warm comfort, wise counsel and womanly companionship. She was also fond of Miss Rose, as her teacher, and Miss Ross, as the nurse who had seen her through a dreadful time of illness in her childhood, but with them she still felt herself confined to a role in the areas of their expertise: as student or patient. It was to Mrs. Taylor that she had poured out all her joys and sorrows, and had always found a willing ear and an honest, loving voice. This relationship had continued and deepened after Hannah had begun working for the older woman, Hannah becoming almost as much a part of that household, and as much a sister to Jenny, as if she had been born there. To Mrs. Taylor had been given the first confidence of a growing attachment to Stephen, and the blissful revelation that he returned her affections. To her had been imparted the earliest news of their betrothal, after Stephen had spoken with Mr. Burns, to ask and receive his permission for Hannah's hand.
So too, now, in a time of fear and anguish, Hannah found herself in Mrs. Taylor's snug kitchen, held in Mrs. Taylor's comforting embrace as if she were a child once more, and had hurt herself, or been teased by the village children for her awkward movements, her lameness, the lingering result of the illness she had suffered as a very young girl.
"Mrs. Taylor, why did he not say he was ill? Miss Ross has now told me that he has been falling unconscious, for brief periods of time, almost two years now! He always seemed well, though a little more tired of late. Why did I not notice? Why did he not tell me anything of this? Why did he forbid and prevent Miss Ross from telling me? Did you know of this?" Hannah pulled herself a little out of the older woman's embrace, and looked with a suspicious glance into the warm brown eyes. Her own eyes were red with weeping, and her distress and sorrow made her seem a very young girl again, much younger than her eighteen years. Her slim frame rested as easily in Mrs. Taylor's ample arms as if she were, indeed, no more than Phoebe's age.
"No, Hannah, I did not. And, you know, I did not see any change in him, either. It is more difficult to recognize small, though perhaps increasing, changes, when we see someone each day, just as parents might overlook a child's growth until it is brought to their attention that skirts or pantlegs and shirtsleeves are suddenly several inches too short! A stranger, perhaps, or an infrequent visitor, might have seen what we did not. Had I known, I might have persuaded him to speak with you, my dear. Though... perhaps not, if he had been adamantly set on secrecy. I can understand his part; that he wished to spare you the anxiety it would bring. He may well have felt that the shorter the time of worry for you, the better. Neither would he wish to show any weakness before you. You will always be his youngest - his 'wee bonnie lassie' - and he has tried to protect and shield you from anything he believed would harm or distress you. That will not change as long as he lives, my dear."
At the unintended reminder of the not unlimited remainder of her father's days, Hannah began weeping anew, her tears flowing silently down the pale cheeks, dampening her own dress as well as that of her comforter. After a time - as if suddenly remembering she was no longer a child, and that she would be needed, now more than ever, by her father - she freed herself from Mrs. Taylor, and seated herself in another chair at the table. Ignoring the tears still on her face, she picked up her teacup and sipped at the now-tepid contents, paying it no more mind than to her hair falling out of its pins and over her shoulders today, instead of being confined in its usual neat plait. She seemed to be lost in her thoughts, and Mrs. Taylor allowed the silence to lengthen.
Beth, who had stayed on the periphery of this exchange, quietly prepared fresh tea, replacing the cups gone cold, and cut more bread, buttering it before setting the simple refreshment on the table. When Hannah had first arrived at the cottage, so evidently distraught, and been led to the kitchen by Mrs. Taylor, Beth had made to leave them alone. Hannah had begged her not to go, though not directing any of the subsequent conversation to her, seeming to forget her presence, once it had been secured.
"And now he has not long to live! He should have told me - I might have been better prepared! I do not know how to help him! I do not think I should leave him, now, but I must still earn enough to feed us both, and to pay for any medicines, or whatever else he might need. What am I to do? How can I tell my brothers? And Stephen..." Her jumbled questions clearly showed the turmoil of her mind, as she shook her head in frustration, her eyes trained upon Mrs. Taylor's face in silent entreaty.
"What does Miss Ross suggest about your father's care? And what has Stephen said?"
"Oh... Stephen wishes for us to get married, as we had planned; father encourages it also, but I feel I simply can not! Even if we then stayed with father, it would not be right. I would feel torn in my attentions and affections, and that is not how I wish our marriage to begin, nor for my father's days to end." Tears flowed afresh at this acknowledgement of her dilemma, of how her heart was being torn between the conflicting desires of duty and love toward her father, added to the sorrow at his inevitable and nearing death, and the newer and very different love she felt for Stephen.
Mrs. Taylor smiled. "Stephen's position is quite reasonable; he would not like to spend much more time apart from you, my dear - he loves you so very much! Yet, I find your argument quite sensible, and sound. If your brothers lived nearer, or were there one among them who had no family, who could come and care for your father, it might be different, but, as it is... If you married under these circumstances, Stephen might soon find he had a new wife whose first thought was not for him, and I doubt he would care for that!"
"No," Hannah smiled weakly through her tears. "I think he sees that now as well. He seemed more amenable to putting our wedding off after he had spoken with his parents, and with Mr. Grahame." She lifted her cup to her lips once more, and looked her gratitude at Beth for the fresh, reviving brew she tasted there. "Miss Ross did say that father would not need a nurse's care constantly, only someone to be near, that he would not be alone, in case of his needing anything, or to fetch Miss Ross."
"Well, in that case - if you feel you must continue with your work - perhaps others in the village, who have some free hours here and there, could stay with your father in turn."
Beth, who had been listening intently, and turning over in her mind all she heard, started at this, and looked thoughtful; after a few moments' indecision, she came forward, offering timidly, "If... if no experience is needed, I... I would be glad to sit with your father, Hannah, if you could trust me with such a task, and... if you think I could, Mrs. Taylor."
Mrs. Taylor had already spoken in depth on this subject with Miss Ross, and had now made the suggestion chiefly in hopes that Beth would hear and consider it, though without having expected the immediate offer of her help. She turned to the hovering girl and agreed wholeheartedly. "I think you would do very well, Beth, very well, indeed," with such a look of approbation as brought a blush and a glow of gratification to that young lady's face.
"How kind of you to offer, Beth!" exclaimed Hannah, at almost the same moment.
"I'm sure Miss Ross will explain to you anything to be done, but I think you will most likely be called upon only to keep Mr. Burns company, to read to him, perhaps, to prepare and serve light refreshment, and to call for help should it be needed. Some of the men in the village will surely see to moving him about as need be. There would be nothing difficult involved."
"Of course, I will have all meals prepared beforehand, as much as possible. I will come home often during each day," added Hannah, "and will see to all other household tasks. Thank you, Beth! That will make my mind so much easier, to know you are there!"
This matter satisfactorily settled, Mrs. Taylor now returned to Hannah's earlier questions. "Have you not written to your brothers, then, Hannah? They should be informed as soon as may be, that they may visit in the time remaining."
Hannah hesitated, "I... I was not sure how to write to all of them, Mrs. Taylor. I had hoped... that you might help me..."
The older woman smiled in understanding. "Yes, of course. A number of the letters may be difficult for you to write, and for certain of your brothers to receive. Have you current directions for all of them?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"Then let us start with them directly, that I may send them out tomorrow." Turning to Beth, Mrs. Taylor added, "We will speak with Miss Ross and Mr. Burns tomorrow, as well, and see if they are agreeable to our plan, my dear, though I doubt very much whether there will be any objection. Would you be willing to go, now, and see if Jenny is settled and lacks nothing? You may wish to rest a little, as well, if you are to begin these duties soon."
Recognizing and accepting this as a dismissal, Beth left the two women to begin the sad task of informing Mr. Burns' sons that their father was gravely ill, and had, in all probability, only several months to live. Should they have time, and the means to do so, visits should be planned at their earliest convenience. This intelligence was worded in various ways, and addressed to men scattered around England, Scotland, and at sea. Each letter closed with Hannah's love sent to a brother and his family, and a plea for his early arrival.
"Why did he not tell Hannah, Mrs. Taylor?"
"I can only imagine that he was trying to protect her, Beth."
Mrs. Taylor and Beth were sitting in the parlour later that evening, with windows wide open, to entice any available breeze to enter and refresh them.
"Do you think it was wrong of him, to keep his illness from her?"
Mrs. Taylor lay her knitting down, and sighed. "That is very difficult to judge, my dear. Parents often make decisions which, to them, seem best, but which may or may not truly be so. I think you will soon find this out for yourself."
"But, then how does one know what to do? How does one decide, when one is a parent... or a guardian?"
"That is an age-old question, Beth, and has no easy answer. Not only is every family different, every time and situation, but each child within a family is a unique person, and may warrant a different treatment from that even of his siblings. Mr. Burns is an old-fashioned man, much older than Hannah, and come from a place with even more old-fashioned ideas and customs. To his mind, protecting Hannah from every possible harm was his most important duty as a father."
"But then how was she to deal with harm and troubles when she left home? For he could not have expected her to be protected all her life!"
"I did not say it was right, or the best decision, Beth, simply what seemed right to Mr. Burns. It is all too easy to judge in hindsight; it is difficult to know how to act in the present, without the benefit of knowing how each decision will turn out. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that Hannah became lame as a young child. She has endured difficulties in moving about, some pain, and much teasing and laughter due to it, from which Mr. Burns - and even all her brothers - could not shield her. It has been unpleasant for her, but has probably served to teach her what she might not have learned otherwise. And so it often is."
"So parents and adults do make mistakes?" Beth's voice held a challenge, and a hint of sarcasm, thinking of her uncle, who, it had seemed to her, had always been supremely confident in the decisions he had made regarding her.
"Dear me, of course they do! Becoming a parent does not confer any perfect and special wisdom in itself. If it did, perhaps all parents would become insufferable, and their 'perfect' children even more so." A self-deprecating smile spread over Mrs. Taylor's face, as she resumed her knitting.
"Oh," Beth flushed as she recalled the older woman's less-than-perfect daughter, and realized that her words might easily have been taken as criticism for Mrs. Taylor herself, "I am so sorry, Mrs. Taylor, I did not mean..."
"It is quite all right, my dear, I realize you were not thinking of Jenny; but, I am no different, and have most likely made my share of mistakes, perhaps an overlarge share, at that. Without a husband with whom I might have discussed matters, who could have balanced my own judgment with his, I have surely done many things ill. With Jenny, even more than with someone like Hannah, there has been a temptation to be overly cautious and protective; Jenny is not so helpless as I sometimes think her. At other times, I have expected more of her than I have a right to; I have too soon and too often lost my patience with her."
"I don't think you have made mistakes, at all, Mrs. Taylor," protested Beth. "Jenny seems happy; she is obedient; she knows how to behave in company, and can do many things for herself, and even for others, such as Miss Rose; Jenny loves you so! No one could have expected you to do more, or better!"
"Thank you, my dear. But, as well as making mistakes, every parent is most likely wracked with doubts. 'What if I had done this differently?' 'What if...' Those two words can haunt one, especially if something bad then does occur. You cannot imagine how often I have left Jenny with someone else, even as dear and trusted, and capable, a friend as Miss Ross, and wondered if I would see her again, if I should have let her out of my sight."
"But you had to prepare her to be with others, if not alone, Mrs. Taylor. That was only right!"
"Of course, but at the time... Well, enough of such thoughts. By God's grace, we have thus far been blessed with little unpleasantness or harm, despite the mistakes I have doubtless made. I have relied on His help in everything concerning Jenny. He has sent friends to comfort and encourage me when I have been frightened, and to help and advise me when I was at my wits' end. What the future holds, I cannot say, but I am content to leave it in His hands, as He can use even my blunders and faults for some ultimate good."
What is this faith she has, marveled Beth. Can God truly use mistakes, for good? Could He even use my mistakes, who have no such faith? Does Uncle think it perhaps his fault that I--
"Now, my dear, we had best retire, as the weeks ahead will be full of many things, some difficult and unpleasant. If you truly mean to help Mr. Burns, you will need to rest as much as possible. And, my dear, I think it very generous and courageous of you to offer your help and time in this way. It will not always be an easy task, and will surely be a sad one. I am proud of you, Beth, and think that your uncle would be, as well."
At this, the first mention of the colonel since their discussion several weeks ago - Beth's part in which she was slowly coming to feel ashamed of - tears welled in her eyes. She looked down, then raised her head again to look Mrs. Taylor in the face, her eyes glinting in the candlelight. "I know how it comforted my mother to have someone near when she was ill and dying. I know the comfort it gave my uncle, to know someone would sit with her during the few times he could not be with her. I... I have no valuable accomplishments, as Miss Rose and Miss Ross have, or as you have. I... have not spent my life 'til now in any good way. I should like to have some way to repay at least someone here in the village for all the kindness shown me."
Mrs. Taylor made no reply, save to embrace Beth warmly.
Chapter 6, Part 7 ~ A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh
The news of the illness of Hannah's father, and its severity, had spread throughout Auldbridge in a remarkably short period of time - a testimony to the intangible machinery of communication in place, even in a village with no organized system of news dissemination. This news had saddened many of the villagers, and had sobered Phoebe and Julia Hobart - apparent in the subdued spirits they had brought to their morning lessons with Miss Rose this day, a marked contrast to their usual noisy exuberance. They had a great fondness for Mr. Burns, and for Hannah. The carpenter had, several years ago, presented them with cleverly carved and crafted playthings, which he had made in thanks for a service Mr. and Mrs. Hobart had rendered him, but for which they had absolutely refused payment of any sort. He had made the toys instead, which the parents had, after some discussion and consideration, graciously accepted, as they seldom had the means with which to purchase such beautiful things themselves.
When Stephen had first begun walking out with Hannah, she had been viewed by the two girls as a rival for Stephen's affections, and had been alternately snubbed and teased by both for several months. With the passage of time, however, endless patience and good humour on Hannah's part, and not a few sharp rebukes from Stephen, they had come to accept and look on her as an older sister. They soon found advantages to such an arrangement as well, especially as they saw that Stephen's fondness for them was in no wise diminished or changed by his love for Hannah. Now, seeing her sorrow at her father's illness, and being so fond of him themselves, they were distressed, as they had not yet, in the course of their short lives, had cause to be.
The two reached the end of their lessons, and began slowly gathering their books and papers together, while Miss Rose tidied her own things after the morning's work.
"Miss Rose, it's very sad about Mr. Burns, isn't it? Mama told Julia and I that he may die, soon. Hannah's awfully upset, and Stephen and Julia and me are, too."
"It is sad, Phoebe. Mr. Burns is a good and kind man, and I will miss him very much when he is no longer with us," replied the teacher, thinking of the myriad ways in which she had benefited from the carpenter's skill since the loss of her eyesight. She was distracted from these thoughts by the recollection of her student's last words, a wrinkle knitting her brow, and a warring taking place within her. It was a brief skirmish, with the humble spirit of charity bowing and surrendering to the overwhelming forces of perfection and principle. Admitting defeat, she sighed. "Phoebe, will you repeat what you just said?"
"What did I say, Miss Rose? What do you mean?"
"You said, 'Mama told Julia and I'; do you hear what is wrong with that?"
"No, ma'am," after a little thought.
"It should have been, 'Julia and me'."
"But, I thought you told us to use 'I' after another person, to put ourselves last, Miss Rose."
"It is quite right to put yourself last, in most cases; but, which of the words is used - 'me' or 'I' - depends on its place and meaning in the sentence, Phoebe. In what you said afterwards, 'Stephen and Julia and me', you should have used 'I' instead of 'me'."
"How can we tell the difference, Miss Rose? How can we know what is correct?" asked Julia.
"Why is 'I' right in one place, and not the other?" added the younger girl, frustration and not a little impatience clear in her voice. "And what difference does it make if we speak properly, or not? Everyone knows what we mean." Her logic was quite sound, even reasonable, and a small smile tugged at Miss Rose's lips even as she first addressed her pupil's former question, and that of her sister.
"There is a very good reason why 'I' or 'me' is used, as well as 'him' or 'he', and 'her' or 'she', and other forms, but it may be a difficult one for you to understand right now. It has to do with grammatical cases, which come to English grammar by way of Latin. Perhaps we may discuss these sooner than I had thought to do... For the time being, an easier way for you to know which is right, is to use 'I' or 'me', or the other words, alone. Whichever word is correct when used alone will also be the correct one to use with another person's name in a phrase. You would not say 'Mama told I', would you, Phoebe?"
"Of course not! That sounds silly!"
"Then, just as 'Mama told me', or, 'Mama gave me' is correct, 'Mama told Julia and me', or 'Mama gave Julia and me' is also correct. Do you see?"
"Well... I suppose so."
"So Phoebe's other sentence should have been 'Stephen and Julia and I', because she would not say, 'me is upset'!" Julia drew her conclusion with a triumphant note in her voice, earning her a scowl from the younger girl, who was less than pleased to be bested in a grammar lesson by her sister, as so often was the case.
"Exactly, Julia. Very well done. That is also a more difficult example, as Phoebe's sentence ended without the final word - 'upset' - which would have made it easier to hear and distinguish the proper form. It is similar to saying 'taller than I', for, if the phrase were to be completed, according to very strict rules, one would say, 'taller than I am tall'; one would never say, 'taller than me is tall'."
"But what difference does any of it make, Miss Rose?" Phoebe renewed her complaint, as single-minded in it as she generally was in anything which caught her attention. "We are not princesses or duchesses, and will not likely speak to the King, or to anyone important," thus relegating the entire populace of Auldbridge to the ranks of the insignificant and inconsequential.
Julia giggled as she pictured Phoebe, as she now appeared, standing before the King in Court: wearing an old brown frock, a worn apron, spotted with the morning's tea, her long braid coming undone after having raced another village child down the High Street before coming to her lesson, and a black streak on her cheek where her pen had grazed it as she had pushed back her hair.
Phoebe glared at her sister, "Well, you know, too, that it doesn't really matter what we say!"
Miss Rose could not help but smile at the familiar squabbling, and at the all-too-familiar argument, which she regularly encountered in teaching children of more humble families. "Phoebe, you are quite right, in that most will understand what you mean to say, whether or not you speak or phrase it correctly. It is also unlikely - although, stranger things have happened! - that you will meet the King, or someone else from the nobility, whom you will wish to impress with your speech. How you speak at home, or on the street, truly does not matter." Miss Rose's voice strengthened as she warmed to her subject. "Every language seems to have many dialects, or variations - each with unique words, phrases, and even some rules of grammar - many reflective of the daily life and interests in a particular region of a country, sometimes as small as a single village, or confined to persons of a particular occupation. Some can be very colourful; some can be almost impossible for a stranger to understand. But, so too, each language has a proper form, used for government, for education, and for trade. Without such, though knowing the same language, many persons would not even be able to speak or conduct business with one another. The same words or phrases may have different meanings - just imagine how confusing that could be! No dialect is inherently better than another; but, by common consent - or by royal decree - the proper, or standard, is used to communicate more broadly. In England, proper English is the accepted language for schools, for trade, for those in Society, as well as for servants working in fine houses. Even individuals in a small village, such as your parents or the Gilberts, or other tradesmen who have business with many - villagers as well as travelers - must be able to use English properly. As for you, you do not know what your lives will bring. You are both clever girls, and there is no reason that you cannot have at least two languages in your heads: your everyday language for family and friends, and proper English, for school and trade and service. I think both of you can do at least so much, do not you?"
"But, we are not in government, or in Society, Miss Rose! What good will it do us to work and learn so much?" complained Phoebe.
Julia now sided with Phoebe, and voiced her own doubt. "The children from some of the farms say that we are putting on airs, and acting above our station when we speak properly. They tease us and call us rude names!"
"Those who say such things and mock you for your efforts are most likely uneducated, or lazy, themselves, and envious of anyone who is given an opportunity of bettering himself. They may even simply be repeating what they have heard their parents or friends say, Julia. That is not to say that you should ever speak in a way that mocks or marks another person's weaknesses. That is very unkind. Proper speech - and true gentility and breeding - includes knowing how to speak graciously with all: those 'beneath' one, as well as 'above' one. That may be more difficult than simply speaking well." A smile came to her face, as she cautioned, "It would also be well for you to remember that 'pride goeth before a fall.' If you speak in intricate sentences, using many words of more than one syllable, without being certain of their exact meaning - and there are many, both long and short, which sound or look alike, but have very different meanings - simply to show off your knowledge, you may end in simply showing yourself ignorant, when you are caught in mistakes."
"Good language will always help you, Phoebe, no matter what your lot in life. Look at your brother, Stephen. Do you think he would have done so well, and have gained such a high position with Lord Auldbury, at such a young age, if he could not speak well? Stephen must be able to buy and sell horses, as well as train them and oversee the stables; he will be called upon to speak with those of Lord Auldbury's visitors who are interested in horseflesh, very likely gentlemen of education, of Society and the nobility. He will need to read, to continue learning more about his trade, and all the latest news and developments. No matter how gifted one is - and Stephen is remarkably gifted with animals - if one can not speak clearly with other persons, of all walks of life, if one can not continue to learn from, or teach, others, the gift is rendered less useful. It was not always easy for Stephen - language is not his especial gift, and all formal lessons were a constant struggle for him. He would much rather have spent all his time at the stables, and with all the stray dogs that wandered into his path, tending and training them; but, he persevered. He need not be ashamed of speaking with the highest noble, nor the lowliest stableboy. Perhaps you or Julia will help your parents in the shop, Phoebe. Perhaps you will someday be a teacher or a governess yourself; and a teacher must be able to speak well, no matter what the subject of her tutelage."
Phoebe wrinkled her nose at these dull choices for her future. Then her eyes lit with enthusiasm. "Or maybe someone will choose me to be a companion to them, like Miss Ross was. Then I would travel all over the world, and see all manner of odd and wonderful things!" She loved the stories told by the nurse of the years she had spent traveling with Lady Hartworth - the strange things they had seen and done - and had spent hours, often sitting in a corner, unnoticed by her parents, listening, as they visited with Miss Ross in their parlour.
"Yes, as Miss Ross was, Phoebe," the teacher corrected. "Or," with eyes twinkling, and a broad smile, knowing well in what directions her students' fancies and dreams lay, Miss Rose continued in a more enjoyable and rather more imaginative vein, "perhaps someone rich and handsome will see you, at an assembly. He will be attracted to your cultivated words; he may draw near and be captivated by your lively wit, and bewitched by your fine eyes, which will shine with, and be rendered uncommonly beautiful by, your intelligence."
"He will fall in love with me and marry me, and we will live happily ever after on his great estate in Lincolnshire, or Nottinghamshire, or Derbyshire!" Julia finished her ending to the tale with a dramatic sigh, clasping her hands to her chest.
"On the other hand, maybe one of you will write stories or poetry, which will be hailed across England. You will be compared to Shakespeare himself, despite your humble origins. Your wit, your style and your keen insight and observations on many aspects of life - humanity in all its glories and absurdities - will be praised even by Kings and Queens. People will flock to buy your books, even as long as one or two hundred years from now, and when you die, you will be buried in Winchester Cathedral!"
"My books will be read by people all over the world, as examples of the most proper and elegant English, of course, and be translated into dozens of languages! Perhaps they will even be performed on stage! The most celebrated actors and actresses will vie for the parts, and their fame will spread in consequence of my works!" Phoebe's nose and chin were thrust high into the air with this pronouncement, as she feigned an air of haughtiness in both voice and countenance.
At this, the three dissolved into laughter at the improbable nonsense they had concocted. With all sad thoughts temporarily fled, the girls picked up their things, and, with smiles on their faces, left their teacher, to return home.
Miss Ross had just quit the baker's shop when her attention was drawn to the sight of the two girls laughing and giggling as they made their way home from their lessons, striking odd poses and waving their hands in dramatic gestures. She smiled to see them so, and reminded herself to ask Rose later as to what had set off such hilarity.
Chapter 6, Part 7
By the end of the day, Miss Ross had seen her patient comfortably settled, though grumbling at the fuss all were making over him, declaring that he was not in need of so many nursemaids, and not even so much as one nurse. Hannah had come home several times during the course of the day; Mrs. Hobart and Mrs. Gilbert had stopped by as well. He had attempted to refuse the offer of neighbors coming regularly to sit with him, but had found Miss Ross serenely immovable on this point, and completely unaffected by his arguments, bluster, or orders. She had left for the evening only upon securing his grudging agreement - but, agreement nonetheless - to her plan, with no possibility admitted for his recanting it. He had accepted the idea of Beth coming each day, rather than another of his neighbors, slyly allowing that it would perhaps do the young woman some good to get out of the Taylors' cottage now and again. Hannah had returned, and was to remain home for the remainder of this day; her father would, in all likelihood, still act the part of the strong father before her, for as long a time as would be possible, hiding any weakness. He would attempt to act the gallant gentleman in Beth's presence, as well, which would do him no harm, for the present.
As Tabitha Ross entered her own cottage, all was dark, and silent. She made her way to the parlour, where her cheerful greeting died on her lips as she took in the scene there. One candle, only, had been lit, leaving most of the room in deep shade. Miss Rose was sitting on the sofa, as was her wont, but with empty hands: no knitting, or sewing, and no sign of her letter tray. Her face was wet with tears, which continued to overflow from her unseeing eyes, and slip, slowly, over her cheeks.
"Whatever is the matter, Rose? Are you ill? What has happened?"
As she received no reply, she sat by her friend, and took her in her arms, surprised by the vehemence of the noiseless sobs wracking the small frame. The nurse's alarm mounted, for even in the first months of blindness, when she had been made aware that the use of her eyes would be denied her for the rest of her life, Rose had never given way to such grief as was now evident.
"Rose, you must tell me! What is it?"
The teacher drew back, and, breathing deeply and slowly, attempted to staunch the flow of tears, and to dry their tracks on her face. She remained silent for several long minutes while her friend looked at her anxiously, but without further urging her to speak.
"Oh, why can not I learn when to hold my tongue? Why must I be so clever? Would that I had been born a simpleton! Why can not I ever stop being a teacher, correcting and insisting on perfection? It is no wonder..."
As Miss Rose showed no sign of continuing, her friend prompted her. "Whatever do you mean? Why should you wish to be less clever, or to stop being a teacher? You have a great gift for teaching! What has happened that would make you say such things?"
After a few moments more of wretched reflection, Miss Rose spoke, her voice made hoarse by tears, her words punctuated with sobs. "This morning - the girls had finished their lessons - when Phoebe tried to speak of her sadness about Mr. Burns, I could not keep silent, or speak to her concerns, but was simply compelled to correct her speech!"
Miss Ross' face showed the relief she felt, at this seemingly simple cause for such deep distress, and her lips twitched in amusement as she pictured the scene. She realized, though, that, for her friend, this was nothing to make light of. "Why do you think this so wrong, Rose? I saw Julia and Phoebe leave here, and they were laughing and giggling! I had meant to ask you what it was they had found so diverting."
"Oh," the teacher sighed, her countenance one of agitated despair, "we ended the grammar 'lesson' - 'twas in truth more of a lecture - with some fanciful and preposterous suppositions as to the girls' futures. It was all silly, really, just nonsense, like something out of a novel."
"If it brought such joyous laughter to them, maybe it was not so silly. Rose, do you not see? With the preposterous notions, as you call them, the girls may remember the grammar lesson - and lecture - so much the better. As for their asking about Mr. Burns - there will be time enough for all to be sad, and to mourn for him. For Phoebe and Julia to be merry, now, will be best for all, especially for Mr. Burns, without forgetting completely about his situation - and I think there is no danger of that. Perhaps they can continue inventing and improving upon such diverting stories when they visit him, which he will surely enjoy. He may even be inspired to test his wits to outdo them, for he is a great storyteller himself, and his tales are by no means lacking in fancy and absurdity, themselves!"
"Do you really think so, Tabitha?" The wistful tone of voice did not go unheeded by her friend.
"Yes, I do," she answered, in a firm tone, brooking no disagreement. Then, to direct Miss Rose's thoughts in a more cheerful path, she turned to another subject of mutual interest, certain of its power to dispel such gloomy thoughts as the teacher had been entertaining. "I spoke with Mr. Burns today, and he has agreed to allow Miss Beth to stay with him each day."
An incredulous smile broke through the remainder of the tears. "Do not tell me he gave in so easily, Tabitha - if you do, I will not believe you!"
"No, you are right; it was quite an argument. But, I was finally able to make him see the peace of mind it would give Hannah, which, of course, served as the best inducement of all. I also made it abundantly clear that his only other choice would be to accept me, or another nurse, into his house for each hour of every day. That was likely the true turning point of the discussion! After so many years with Hannah being the only woman in a household of ten, he clearly can not abide the thought of such an invasion of alien femininity!" The two women laughed. "It is settled. Beth will begin her visits on Monday. Mr. Grahame and others will stop by - all impromptu visits, of course," she grinned, "at regular hours throughout each day."
Silence reigned for a time, as each woman sat, lost in thought. Miss Rose was the first to stir; rising, she moved toward the door, intending to begin preparations for their repast. She turned back, hesitating. "Tabitha, you do know, do you not, that she is with child?"
The nurse's head came up sharply. "Did she tell you of this?"
"No. Then it is true? You have known of it?"
"Yes. Joanna knows as well, of course. It was the reason for the girl's coming to Auldbridge. But how on earth do you know?"
"You forget, my friend, how many of my own sisters and friends, and students, have married, and become with child over the past twenty years. I can hear it in their breathing; I feel it in the way they carry themselves, and can sense it in their very scent, I believe. Recall, I have been walking with Beth, and have felt and heard her movements, and how they are changing with the weeks."
Miss Ross shook her head with a bemused smile. "Even after so many years, it still astonishes me how well your hearing and senses of touch and smell work, when compared to my own. You are truly remarkable, Rose!"
The teacher's smile was wry, and tinged with sadness. "Not so very remarkable. These... accomplishments are not so very laudable, they simply tell me about my surroundings, and permit me to spy out secrets, apparently. Such things are of little use, of no real benefit, to anyone else. At times they simply feed my pride and vanity, Tabitha, and allow me to feel more clever. Such a sense of my own cleverness has not served me well. It has been my downfall time and again. Especially... I wonder, sometimes..."
As Miss Rose hovered near the doorway, her hands uncharacteristically restless in their fidgeting movements, her friend watched her with growing unease once more. It was unlike Rose to be so introspective, so indecisive. Impulsively, she asked, "What is troubling you, Rose? It is more than simply your lesson this morning, is it not? Perhaps it would do you good to speak of it, if not with me, than with Joanna, surely." Her friend stiffened momentarily, then, giving a great sigh, slowly returned to her seat on the sofa. She turned toward the nurse, as if trying to see her face, to search the expression of her eyes, though knowing it to be a futile exercise.
"Should I, even with full use of my eyes, have been a good wife, or, even, a good mother? I begin to think it best that I did not have children of my own. It seems I chose rightly - not to wed - so many years ago." The tone was cheerless and bitter, more so than in many years. Miss Ross was taken aback, and could not quickly find words to answer her friend, to encourage her to speak of the thoughts she had, apparently, been guarding so closely. Rose had never spoken of her broken engagement, had refused to speak if the subject had been attempted, whether by her, or by Mrs. Taylor, or by anyone else of their acquaintance. Perhaps it had lain, a wound festering for these twenty years, waiting for the proper time to be lanced and cleansed. Perhaps now, finally, she would be able to speak of it. While Miss Ross thought how best to begin, and what to say, her friend continued of her own volition.
"How I wish someone had rebuked me long ago! I was too much praised for my cleverness, and not enough reproved for my careless wit and criticism at the expense of others; I was valued, as I thought, for my accomplishments, and my opinions were not corrected as to where the true value and worth of a person lie. My own arrogance and pride, in my cleverness, and in all my knowledge, led me to regard many others as my inferiors. I would not be guided or persuaded by anyone, not even those I held most dear. I was so much cleverer than they! What right had anyone to correct or to censure me? When I lost my eyesight, I deemed most others as incapable and unsuitable of helping me, as I deserved and needed to be helped. I could not stand the thought of being so helpless, so dependent on others, least of all on a husband, of enduring the daily humiliations inherent in a marriage under such circumstances."
"I noticed no such pride, nor any such reservations, Rose! You accepted help from me, and from Joanna; you allowed Jenny to help you, even when she was quite young. You accepted assistance from others in the village, and quickly adapted to new ways of doing many things! You would have adapted just as quickly in marriage, I am sure."
In a low voice, with head hung down, Rose confessed. "I am not so sure of that, Tabitha. I endeavored to keep my pride - which I considered to be justified - under good regulation; but, I often secretly despised those who helped me. I condescended to accept their aid, but only after a great struggle with my vanity. I pity all who were around me, then! I know, now, what an ungracious and ungrateful person I must have been. Any loneliness, any unpleasantness I have suffered, has been all my own doing. By insisting on my own standards, grounded in my own cleverness, the perfect life, the perfect marriage, on my terms, and in my definition of acceptable perfection, I lost many chances for happiness and enjoyment. I would not agree to some friendships, and most certainly not to a marriage, on such terms as I would have been forced to accept."
After a pause, she continued. "The years since have been humbling. I have seen such a tolerance for imperfections, and weaknesses, such forgiveness and trusting love, between the Hobarts, that it makes me quite ashamed of myself. Among all my students, Jenny has taught me far more than I could ever hope to teach her, of accepting, and even rejoicing in, accomplishments which are not of the highest standards, even as they are her best efforts. Jenny laughs so easily at small mishaps, though being truly apologetic for larger mistakes she makes. She accepts those around her so easily, regardless of who or what they are, and regards no one either with superiority, nor from inferiority. Would that I could do as much! Even Beth, poor thing - of whom I know but little, but from whose circumstances I can guess much - has apparently learned something through her trials. I am so pleased of what you have told me of her growing friendships here. She has been most helpful to me, and has seemed eager to learn and redeem whatever is in her past. So much is obvious from her offer to help Mr. Burns and Hannah, now. I only hope that bearing this child, whatever she decides to do with it, will not irrevocably harm her future chances at happiness."
"I, too, hope so, although she has still much to learn." Miss Ross regarded her friend quietly for some moments. "Perhaps... perhaps your decision twenty years ago, made, as you say, from pride and stubbornness... and, unexceptionally high standards, shall we say? was wrong; yet, marrying then might have been even more disastrous, for other reasons. Had you married, in such a state of mind and spirit as you then possessed, you might have destroyed any love between you and your husband. You were terribly angry, bitter, and filled with self-pity - understandably so, at the time." Rose acknowledged the matter-of-fact truth of her friend's words with a small, wry smile. "Losing something as important to each of us as our sight is, is not an easy thing to become accustomed to. We take the blessings of good health and normal abilities too much for granted - until they are taken from us. I might have reacted much as you did; for, what could I do without my eyes? Mr. Grahame has had his own struggles coming to terms with his disfigurement, as well, though, of course, the outworkings have been different from yours; but, he, too, is dependent on others for much in his daily life. You, yourself, have heard him speak quite openly of how his pride has been mortified time and again since his injury. Perhaps he might feel the same hesitations in taking a wife, as you had in becoming one."
"But, you are being much too severe upon yourself, now, Rose. You were not, and are not, beyond the reach of amendment! You now recognize the limits of cleverness, education and knowledge, and can acknowledge the temptations which come with these gifts. Yet, denying your talents and accomplishments serves no purpose either, and would be a terrible waste of what you have been given, and what you have yourself earned. You are very clever in many things, and you do notice imperfections and flaws, which the rest of us do not. This is most needful in a teacher! As long as you do not let it rule your life, and do not demand that we be as clever as you," she cautioned with a wide grin. "From the many students who have sung your praises, with genuine fondness, Rose, I do not think you need fear having been too harsh as a teacher, or having been heedless of their concerns and feelings. Were that true, they might then speak of you with respect, but with no true affection. Many of them owe much to your demanding only their best efforts of them, to your... perfection." Hesitating a moment, she determined, however, to speak on. "What has happened to bring on such thoughts, Rose?"
Rose was silent for many minutes, so long that Tabitha feared she would, once again, refuse to speak to the question, to reveal the true thoughts of her heart, and return to her stony silence - on this subject - of the past years. At last, she spoke, with tears welling in her eyes.
"As long as Lord Auldbury traveled, and stayed away from here, I was able to make believe that the past did not exist, that I could forget it and all the dreams I had cherished and nourished. I was able to persuade myself that I could live and be happy remaining unmarried, having all my pupils as my 'children.' My dear friend, I feel guilt at even implying that your company, friendship and help have not been appreciated, or that I have lacked for anything in your power to give! Without you, without Joanna and the Hobarts, I would surely not have survived the first months after my removal from the Hall. But, now, especially as it seems they have returned to stay," her voice fell again, from the heartfelt tones she had just voiced, "I would not be honest if I did not confess to feeling lonely, far more often than I care to admit, and not as indifferent as I had wished to appear."
"I am not at all offended, nor am I surprised, Rose! Despite the valiant effort at making a new life for yourself, within the limitations brought upon you, I have never thought you to be fitted for such a life. It is given, to some, to remain alone throughout their lives. I have truly been content that this is my lot, and even my gift, in life. But, you are not such a one. I had always thought... I had always hoped... Has Mr. Burke never tried to speak with you in all this time?"
"You recall, they left for the continent not long after Lord Auldbury's own recovery. They were gone so long! Whenever they did return, it was always for such short periods of time. Yet, he did try, during the first several years, to speak with me, and he wrote to me. I... I would not hear him; I did not answer his letters. I felt his speeches and epistles were only prompted by pity, and I wanted no part of it! I am certain he soon judged me earnest and steadfast in my refusals, and in my rudeness. During the last fifteen years, he has not spoken, nor has he written. Oh, Tabitha, I have wronged him so, and brought this on myself!" Tears threatened to flow afresh, as her voice broke with the last admission.
"But, now, since they have returned? You have been in company together several times, at least. Have you had no serious conversation with him, at all?"
"We have met, but almost as strangers, it seems. He has been polite, but aloof, indifferent, coolly civil. I was surprised to find how much it pains me, to hear no warmth of feeling toward me in his voice. And yet how can I blame him, or expect anything other than that for which I alone bear the responsibility?"
Late in the night, while all the village slept, Miss Rose made her silent way from bedchamber to parlour, finding a path through the cottage as effortlessly in the pitch blackness as in the brightest light of day. In the modest room, with everything so carefully arranged, her fingers reached to move gently across the surface of one painting after another hung on the walls, calling to mind long-ago scenes with each touch. She came to stand before a rendering of a gentleman and two horses halted beside an old stone cross at a fork in a country road. The figures stood framed by meadows bright with wildflowers, overarched by a deep blue, cloud-scattered sky. The man, simply, but faultlessly dressed, his dark hair tousled as if by a breeze, his face warm with laughter, sat at ease on his mount: a tall chestnut, with a broad white blaze on its face, three white legs, and eyes of pale blue. The gentleman held the reins of a second horse, saddled for a woman: a small bay, deep brown, with glossy black legs, mane and tail, and the smallest of white stars on its forehead.
The teacher stood pensively in the dark room, as though straining to see the image before her. One slender finger moved to outline the man's head, and run down the length of his arm, to the hand resting on the saddle's pommel. It hesitated there a moment, before continuing down the horse's shoulder, as if to stroke the animal's silky hair. Heedless of the hour, or of the passage of time, Miss Rose continued tracing the outlines of the three figures, caressing them lightly, as though she could see them as well now as she had on the day she had painted this scene.
Chapter 6, Part 8 ~ A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh
John Blevins had spent no little time examining the several banknotes which lay on the broad desk before him - skillfully executed, though quite illegal, works of art - tracing the designs, fingering the paper, holding each one to the light, comparing one against the other. He finally dropped his hands in disgust, no wiser than when he had begun his study, discernment hindered by his own lack of skill in this area.
An hour later saw John making his way to the rooms of Mr. Scribney once more, this time with Tim in tow. In their possession were some five and twenty examples of the forger's art, in various denominations, most collected through Tim's own particular artistry in relieving persons and premises of unwanted or unneeded objects, regardless of the original owner's concurrence with such an appraisal. John confessed himself quite unable to see the difference between these notes and those deemed legal tender; Tim claimed the differences to be quite apparent; both were anxious for Mr. Scribney's professional opinion, and to hear the conclusions he would draw from a perusal of these thin scraps of paper, endowed with special value only by the claims made upon them in design of ink.
As they entered the building John's nose had good cause to recall, he unconsciously held his breath until well above the ground floor, while Tim seemed not to notice anything amiss, in the air, anatomy or atmosphere of the building. The revolting nature of the odors was no less so than before, being rather compounded by the heat and damp of the summer months, rendering this experience even more memorable to John's senses than the first had been. As he became more aware of his surroundings, and less concentrated on conserving the clean air in his lungs, he heard the same cacophony as at his previous visit: random din and noises of all sorts, layered one upon the other. As John and Tim climbed, the clatter thinned, until a lone sound superceded all others. They looked at each other in astonishment, for it was one of the most beautiful either had ever heard. It was a voice, and yet not a voice, singing from a heart abundantly familiar with the breadth and depth of human feeling: love and loss, beauty and pain, misery and yet hope, tears mingled with laughter. "What on earth is that, Guv'nor? Where's it comin' from?" Tim's voice was barely a whisper.
John, knowing how close they were to the artist's rooms, could but conclude that these ethereal yet poignant tones came from there. "I'm not quite sure, Tim. Perhaps Mr. Scribney has a musical visitor with him. What else could it be? Although it is like no other music or instrument I have ever heard," he whispered in return, loath to break the spell the music was weaving. John found himself, almost against his will, thinking of things he had not recently thought to ponder: a childhood cut short, a mother he had not known, a father he had no wish to know, a future for himself - as John Thomas Barrow - as yet unknowable, unpredictable. Unaccountably, tears welled in his eyes, which he sought surreptitiously to dry, while continuing to mount the seemingly endless stairs. As they neared their destination, the musical tones swelled to a grand crescendo, before dying away in sweet echoes which reverberated throughout the stairwell. The two men waited some time before John dared apply himself to the curious knocker, which his companion eyed with astonishment, and with growing appreciation. Upon their admittance to the room, Tim stood stock-still, eyes blinking in disbelief, with much the same reaction to these unanticipated surroundings as John had first felt. John watched, with some condescension from his more experienced position, diverted by any circumstance that could render Tim speechless and stationary. When his own eyes had adjusted to the glaring light, he turned to greet their host, prepared to meet with some second person, but saw no one save Mr. Scribney, who was just on the point of returning a beautiful instrument to its great case, a cello. Against all inclination, John decided to wait upon the questions with which his mind was suddenly full, and performed the necessary introduction for Mr. Scribney and Mr. Scoggins, at the earliest moment of Tim's returning to his senses.
Within a few minutes the three men were seated around a small table under the glass panes in the ceiling, with the forged banknotes spread out before them, all else forgotten. Mr. Scribney, with the aid of a large glass, was examining each one carefully, sometimes stopping at this corner, at other times leaning in to view a particular area more closely, turning some one or another piece over, carefully holding each by the edges, using delicate forceps of silver.
With amused commiseration, John was aware of his companion growing ever more impatient at the older man's impenetrable calm during this protracted study. Tim leaned forward eagerly at first, ready to corroborate any comments, or answer any questions from this peculiar gentleman. As the unwelcome silence lengthened, he leaned back, hands pushed deeply in his pockets, one foot tapping an impatient tattoo on the bare wooden floor. Each attempt to speak being rebuffed by both the other men, he finally lurched to his feet and prowled about the room, gazing out the windows, and stopping now and again to study the paintings and sketches adorning the several easels. He was about to remonstrate with John about this waste of his time, when the artist finally sat back, and, looking up with his mild gaze, addressed Tim directly, "You have brought some excellent examples here today, sir. I compliment you on your resourcefulness, and on your selection." Tim, cheeks reddened by the unexpected praise, all impatience being disarmed by the man's gentle manner, sank into his seat once more, as Mr. Scribney continued.
"This is a true artist at work here, my friends. He has been remarkably well-trained, and is obviously experienced enough to avoid the more common pitfalls in such an endeavour. I would hazard a guess that his training was on the continent, perhaps in France. It is interesting to see... Do you happen to know when each of these notes made its appearance?"
John looked at Tim, who shook his head.
"Ah, a pity. If they were all produced at the same time, it would explain the uniformity and clarity of the print. Now, if they were made at varying times, it would most likely indicate a good deal of effort behind this fraud, and that the engraver had an almost inhuman ability in duplicating his own work."
"Why is that, sir?"
"Engraving plates of this sort usually wear out after a certain amount of use. Plates that are on their way to being worn out will yield smudged prints, not the clear, well-defined prints here. Ergo, all the examples here, of any one denomination, were made nearly at the same time, or new plates were produced frequently, an expensive and painstakingly tedious proposition in itself, but with remarkable precision, as I can discern no differences among all these pieces."
"What else can you tell us about the work, sir? You said the artist may have been trained in France. What makes you think so?"
Mr. Scribney sighed, "It is difficult to explain what leads me to such a conclusion. In the same way that no two people have exactly the same step or manner of walking, or the same tone and pitch of voice, so, too, works of art always reveal the artist. For example, every musical instrument is slightly different from another, whether a pianoforte, a violin, or a cello," indicating the great case in the corner with a wave of his hand, "and each craftsman puts a distinctive, inimitable stamp on his work, even if he does not then sign it. Every musician performs, every author writes, in a manner unique to himself. The same is true for artists in painting and sculpture, as well as unlawful 'art,' and extends to the creations of cooks and bakers, of carpenters and leatherworkers, to almost all persons, even in such mundane habits as everyday work and dress."
"That makes sense to me, Guv'nor. When someone does any... work in my area, I can usually tell who it was. Everyone's got a particular way of doin' things. Good as leavin' his callin' card."
"Precisely, Mr. Scoggins. Further, although each individual is unique in his work and performance, he will almost invariably imitate his masters to some extent, be it ever so slight, the teachers with whom he studied. At the very least, he will betray his native land, and the schools, tendencies and customs prevalent in any given art or area. The style of these engraving, the lines, the quality... they seems somehow familiar to me, and yet..." he shook his head. "No, I can not place them. Perhaps I will be able to remember more, hopefully soon!" he added, with a wry smile.
"Apart from the possibility that you will recall something more specific, sir, how does this help us in identifying who among our gentlemen is behind the forgery? Unless one of them is a trained artist, it seems that this brings us no closer to identifying him."
"No, Mr. Blevins, you are quite right in that none of the gentlemen you are investigating is an artist himself, or, at least, as far as we know. However, one does not simply advertise and hire someone of such caliber to do dishonest work. One must have the means and the will to seek out a person with this particular great skill, coupled with a complete lack of moral principles and conscience. You might further define your search by noting who has connections to the continent, as well as to the world of art, and of what kind. Someone who has never traveled, who has no interest in or knowledge of art, or one who is a confirmed Francophobe, will be an improbable candidate. It will more likely be an unscrupulous person willing, or desperate enough, to take risks; for, though commonly encountered, forgery is still a risky proposition, and usually a short-lived endeavour." Leaning back and crossing his legs, he continued. "Perhaps we may share whatever knowledge of these gentlemen each of us has learned in the past weeks, and review what we knew before - now, as it especially refers to connections with France, and art. Together, the rumours and hearsay, coupled with fact, may uncover something that has been hidden to any one of us alone. Even idle gossip may have grown around some kernel of truth, which may offer an avenue for verification and exploration."