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Chapter 7, Part 5 ~ A Time to Mourn and a Time to Dance
Beth's daily tasks, her time with Mr Burns, continued - uninterrupted by the preparations building in momentum throughout the neighborhood, but a little interrupted, in spirit, by her very interesting discussion with the nurse, which had given her much to contemplate.
She breakfasted early each morning with Mrs Taylor and Jenny. After Hannah's arrival at their small cottage, Beth and the postmistress walked into the village together, Mrs Taylor stopping to greet Mr Burns briefly before continuing on her way to the post office. She and Beth were frequently met at the door of the Burns' home by Mr Hobart or Mr Gilbert, sometimes by both gentlemen. These two helped the retired carpenter each day with his morning needs, and saw him comfortably settled in a chair in the parlour, near a window affording a good view of the street, and all the comings and goings of interest. A table close by was always left prepared by Hannah, with a water jar and a glass standing at the ready, and a tin of sweet biscuits, which the old man was particularly fond of. Two canes leant against a low cupboard next the chair, as Mr Burns could no longer walk unaided.
Mr Grahame, bringing with him the lad who assisted him every day, came around noon, and ofttimes returned in the evening. Ralph Gilbert was a constant guest to late afternoon tea or supper, and brought, as his contribution, progress to report, and advice to ask, of the final preparations to the newly restored outbuildings at the Hall. Together with the innkeeper and the draper, these men saw to all the ailing gentleman's requirements which could not be met by the women. Miss Ross also came daily, though her times varied widely, depending on the demands of her other patients. Mrs Hobart and Mrs Gilbert brought savory dishes from their kitchens to tempt Mr Burns' appetite, which was not as robust as it had once been. Phoebe and Julia - sternly admonished to be no bother, and to come away at once should Mr Burns appear weary - arrived to divert their old friend with tales and games, but often as not found themselves diverted instead, listening spellbound to droll anecdotes from earlier years in Auldbridge, and outrageous stories and legends from the Scottish highlands.
Still other neighbors, from the village and from the Hall, brought or sent gifts of various types, some practical and welcome, some less so, some purposely nonsensical and whimsical. All served to cheer the old man's days, to remind him that he was not forgotten, nor would he be forsaken, though confined to his house. A few, however, provoked mixed feelings in his daughter. One offering was comprised of stout, almost-new walking boots, sturdy woolen trousers, intended for a cold midwinter's workday, and an elegant beaver, suitable to wear to town, or for a similar special occasion. For such, Hannah gave gracious thanks publicly, wept secretly, and gave them over, privately, to Mr Grahame, who saw to it that they found their way into a household where they would be of some use.
Between responding to the frequent demands of the door knocker, Beth passed the time in preparing and serving refreshments, in fetching any light thing required by Mr Burns or his guests, and, when left alone for a rare half-hour, in reading aloud, which never failed to divert and please her host (he would not countenance being referred to as a patient, an invalid, or a charge). With sentimental romances he had little patience; with other novels he had had, as yet, little acquaintance, and thus, little interest. But, much to his new friend's relief, the carpenter did not require of her to read only dull treatises on the just-discovered properties of exotic woods being brought from far-off lands, the newest arts for wood-turning, the latest methods of producing a well-constructed building, or the manifold uses for a three-penny nail. He enjoyed poetry: Robert Burns, for choice - joking that he was, of course, doubtless distantly related to this famous son of Scotland; plays, comedies above all; and, ever a sentimental fool, as he named himself, the sonnets of Shakespeare.
When his own spirits and energy were high, he regaled his young companion with tales of his own, which were not altogether much more prosaic, nor any more lacking in fanciful language nor daring exploits, than those fictions written and published for the enjoyment of the masses. He told of growing up in Scotland, of coming to England as a lad of twelve, as apprentice to a carpenter, of finding work with Lord Auldbury at seventeen, of marrying not long after. Of his wife, and of his nine children, all accounts nearly burst with fondness and pride: histories, hair-raising escapades and mundane happenings. All was told with a faint Scottish accent remaining in his words and phrases, and with enough humour sparkling in his eyes that Beth was never quite sure how much truth to credit each story.
The recent news of the guests to be hosted at the Hall stirred in him thoughts of other such gatherings he had prepared for over the many years he had served on the estate.
"Ah, 'tis grand to hear of a party at the Hall, again. The great rooms an' galleries have been pinin' away these many years for just such an occasion. For such they were intended. An' the beauteous gardens an' walkways, they were not meant to sit in silence an' loneliness, with no one to admire an' enjoy them."
"Were you at the last ball, sir?" asked Beth, sure that this garrulous man would be able to tell her all about it, and satisfy her deepening curiosity. "What was it like? Did you meet many of the guests?"
"I? No, lass, but I recall the preparations verra well. An' a grand ball it were, indeed. The younger maids couldna stop their gaupin', so I were told, at all the lovely ladies an' handsome gentlemen come to take part. Lord Auldbury were always so thoughtful of his guests, always rememberin' who had a likin' for what. Everythin' prepared an' done just so. An' it were not just for his guests that he were so kind. Every year there were a harvest feast which his lordship had prepared for his servants and tenants - every year, without fail, even when he were not here, poor man! A fine time it were, we always had. I well remember the food, the gaiety, the music, an' the dancin'! My Mary were so light on her feet, her skirts always swirlin' and flarin'!" The old man sighed; his eyes strayed to the curtains which suddenly swayed and billowed in a gust of summer-scented air, then returned to the young face near him. "Ye'll not be believin' an old man could be so romantic, eh, Miss Beth? But, even after all these years, I miss my bonnie Mary. I canna complain, though. The good Lord gave us four an' twenty years together, with nine healthy children - an' all of 'em still livin'! 'Tis not my place to argue with His time an' reasons! 'Tis lookin' forward to seein' her again soon, I am, though, Lord willin'!"
His reminiscences were interrupted by a knock at the door, which Beth answered fully expecting to see Hannah, as it was near the time she usually came home, often with her arms filled with packages received from friends along the way. Instead of a single young woman on the doorstep, Beth was surprised to see three: Miss Rose, Julia and Phoebe, the girls each carrying several books on one arm, while proudly lending the other to their teacher. They were closely followed by Mr and Mrs Hobart, walking arm-in-arm. Upon entering, Miss Rose explained their visit.
"We were reading a play during our lessons this morning, when Julia and Phoebe offered a most excellent suggestion. As it is a comedy, we thought Mr Burns and you might enjoy it as well; so, we decided to continue the lesson this evening, to come and share it all together. Mr and Mrs Hobart also wished to hear, as it is one of their favorites."
"It is 'Much Ado About Nothing.' Do you know it, Miss Beth?" asked Julia. "It is great fun!"
"Do say you'll stay, Miss Beth! We shall need you, too," added Phoebe, mysteriously.
Miss Rose hastened to reassure Beth, knowing what time the young woman usually returned to the Taylors' cottage. "I spoke with Mrs Taylor when she came by to collect Jenny. If you care to stay, she will not be worrying about you. Mr Hobart has promised to see us all safely home, should the hour grow late."
Beth, a little mystified by Phoebe's remark, but pleased to be included in this plan of theirs, thanked Miss Rose, and answered the girls' queries in turn. "Why, yes, I know the play; I saw a performance of it in London, with my--, with a friend, not long ago. You are right, Julia, it is great fun. I am sure Mr Burns will like it, too. I shall be happy to stay, Phoebe, thank you." After greeting the elder Hobarts with genuine pleasure - they had become firm favorites with her - she led the way to the parlour, where all found seats to their liking. Miss Rose was led to a chair near Mr Burns. Phoebe sat on a rug at Mr Burns' feet, with Julia taking a place between her parents on a sofa.
Mr Burns welcomed the unexpected guests, and the proposed plan, with great enthusiasm. "What a treat it is ye're givin' me! An' I promise to be quite the best audience; not a peep ye'll hear out of me, exceptin' to laugh appropriately, o' course! I'm sure an' this'll be the rival to any London performance!"
Phoebe then put herself forward. "It was my idea that we should all take parts, and read to each other - play off each other - as if we were truly on a stage; won't that be good fun?" she demanded.
Kindly keeping straight faces, the others all agreed that it would most certainly be 'good fun.' Just then, Hannah came home, and promised to join in when she could, as soon as ever she had tidied herself a bit. She disappeared to go to her room, after asking that she be given a small part, at most. The others began discussing the characters, each choosing a role with some advice from Miss Rose. Mr Hobart was perfectly cast as Leonato, the governor of Messina, and father to a beautiful daughter named Hero. Mrs Hobart, blushing and stuttering, begged, at first, to be let off from reading, but was persuaded to take on the very small role of Ursula, a waiting-woman, after being assured it was not a difficult, nor a large, part. Julia, always the romantic, wished to be Hero. Miss Rose suggested she add Don John, explaining to her pouting pupil that Hero's part did not offer very many occasions to read, and that playing the villain, as well, would be of greater benefit to her. Julia agreed, albeit reluctantly. Her sister, ever the headstrong rebel, chose the part of Benedick, a young lord, loudly proclaiming that playing such a man would give her the greatest challenge, thereby allowing her to profit most from the lesson. Hannah returned in time to hear this last. Having entered the room from behind Phoebe, she enjoyed the advantage of not having to hide her smile, as the rest did, for fear of hurting the little girl's feelings. With her well-known disdain for romance and romantic sensibilities, and her ready tongue to publish such, the role seemed, at least for the first Act or so, tailor-made for this outspoken young student.
"What part would you like to read, Mr Burns?" asked Beth of the carpenter, who was listening with nodding approval and eager anticipation on his face.
"Not I, lassie; I canna read; but I'm all ready to hear the performance from the rest of ye."
"You cannot read!" exclaimed Beth, before she had taken time to think. She had credited his enjoyment of being read to as a part of his illness, his increasing weariness, not as an inability to read himself.
"No, lass. I didna have the opportunity to go to school as a lad, an' didna have the time, later, nor a good, bonnie teacher, as these lassies do," he replied, with a sly smile at Miss Rose, his tone bringing a warm colour to the younger woman's face. "Count your blessin's, girls - if ye can read, ye can do almost anythin' ye set your minds to!"
A knock at the door brought a welcome addition to their numbers, as they had almost resigned themselves to playing multiple roles, with the possibly awkward and undesirable consequence of being obliged to play two opposite characters at once. Mr Grahame, bearing an offering of fresh blackberries and a flask of wine from an outlying farm, was quickly informed of the grand performance soon to begin, and importuned to take a part. With a willing smile, he agreed to play Don Pedro, the brave prince returned from a military action with no deaths, to speak of. At yet another knock, the young girls looked at each other with glee; their plan would soon be going along quite well, at this rate. They were not quite so well-pleased with the newcomer, however, who turned out to be Miss Goldsmith. She appeared a little breathless, as if she had been hurrying greatly.
"Why, Mr Grahame! I had no idea you were here! I am come simply to inquire after poor Mr Burns. A very good evening to you." With a slightly less enthusiastic expression, she greeted the other occupants of the room, and was soon told of the recital about to take place. She sniffed a little at such a foolish way to pass the time - she herself never read books of any sort - but, being ever politic, when it came to concurring with Mr Grahame in all things material and not, she quickly changed her opinion upon learning that the vicar was also to take part. Her own first choice for a role was Hero, described by Miss Rose as a sweet, virtuous and desirable young maiden. At being informed of Julia's fancy for this role, and at the girl's dismayed look - for she knew she would be obliged to give way to the older woman - the seamstress grudgingly accepted the part of Beatrice, a fair young woman of great wit, and determined opinions.
"She should fit the part admirably, with her shrewd tongue; she should be pleased, too - she will actually receive a proposal of marriage from Mr Grahame!" whispered Phoebe, but was quickly hushed by her teacher, lest the seamstress hear, and take offense. Mr Burns and Beth, who sat close enough to overhear, exchanged amused glances at this extemporaneous insight, both being in secret sympathy with the sentiments uttered.
Hannah had just consented, somewhat reluctantly, on account of work waiting for her in other parts of the house, to play Claudio, when another guest joined them. Ralph Gilbert readily agreed to play the role of the young man in love with Hero, good-naturedly teasing Julia that he would not take his eyes off her throughout the performance. Beth was to read several of the smaller parts - whatever might be needed at a particular time - while Hannah was happy to be left with the part of Margaret, another waiting woman, a lesser role, allowing her to escape to her chores quite often.
The books were distributed; the play was begun. Miss Rose, in her own well-suited role as narrator and instructor, described the setting of the play, and a little of the characters, then corrected pronunciation, explained difficult words and passages, and prompted any reader who lost his place as the scenes unfolded. Beth marveled anew at the memory and skill of this woman, who seemed to know the entire play better than those who had it to read before them. She was also much diverted by the performances rendered by the individual players. Mr Hobart proved to be well-matched to his character, that of a gracious host and doting father, rendering each line in a credible fashion. Mr Grahame, as might have been expected, spoke confidently, his voice expressive, carrying conviction and just the right note of authority, while full of humour when it was warranted. Phoebe spoke surprisingly well, showing good preparation on her part, with little hesitation but for a few words here and there, delivering her lines with perfect timing, and an apposite amount of sarcasm and scorn for the fickleness of men's hearts and resolutions, earnest in Benedick's determination never to enter the ranks of the married. Julia was appropriately demure and sweet as Hero, and, in this part, threw what she imagined to be soulful, yet shy, glances at Ralph. She did her best to be villainous as Don John, though she was inclined to giggle at some of his speeches. The cast, varied as it was, presented a charming play. Only one jarring note was to be found, but it was of a painfully conspicuous nature. Miss Goldsmith almost proved the undoing of the other players' heroic attempts to remain earnestly in character. Her tone was flat, her reading wooden and without rythym; she stumbled over arcane phrasings, and many words seemed foreign to her. She seemed completely oblivious to the humour and double meanings of Beatrice's many pronouncements, her duels of wit with Signior Benedick, imbuing them with scant import and no jest at all. Of these deficiencies she remained blissfully unaware, and finished each speech with an approbation-seeking glance in Mr Grahame's direction, which he rarely answered, at such times taking care to be occupied with a judicious and serious study of the script, to prepare for his own next reading.
As the hour grew later, Mrs Hobart, after several anxious glances at the clock, and at her husband, felt obliged to leave with Phoebe and Julia, much to their dismay, as well as that of the remaining company. Mr Grahame professed himself constrained to leave as well - having yet another engagement that evening - and offered to accompany the woman and her daughters home, that Mr Hobart might stay if he cared to, and be available to escort Miss Beth and Miss Rose later. After making a great show of consulting the clock, and professing herself astonished at how quickly the time had passed, Miss Goldsmith explained that she, too, was bound to leave, and made to join the others gathering near the door. In truth, she was most eager to grasp at any reasonable means of escape from this place, which would now be doubly tedious to her in the absence of the one who had made the entire ordeal bearable.
"Might you lend me your company, too, if it is on your way, of course, Mr Grahame? I am a little fearful at so late an hour." Miss Goldsmith looked up at the vicar with an expression that sent Beth searching through her pockets for a handkerchief to cover her smile.
"But it is only--" Phoebe, having as yet learned little tact, and less diplomacy, abruptly swallowed her words at a sharp elbow in her ribs from her sister, a gentle squeeze on her arm from her mother, and a meaningful glance from her father, across the room.
"Of course, Miss Goldsmith. I am on my way to meet with Lord Auldbury, so I may see you to your door. I will have just enough time to arrive at the Hall by the appointed hour." Though disappointed at such a strict limit to the time she might keep the gentleman, the seamstress was resigned to accept what she was given, or could manage to contrive.
After farewells had been said by those leaving, and "God be with ye's" by those remaining, the latter began to redistribute the roles, after an earnest plea from Mr Burns that they not interrupt nor curtail such a splendid entertainment, the old man declaring that he could not possibly sleep 'til he knew how the play was to end. The small group was happily provided with several more players, by visitors arriving just in time to augment their ranks once more. Mr Gilbert was the first to come. His wife had prepared an extra portion of a seed cake which Mr Burns had always fancied, and had desired him to partake of it while it was yet fresh. Miss Ross came hard on the innkeeper's heels, and sank gratefully into a comfortable chair, having walked the length and breadth of the parish this day. Both newcomers were amenable to reading for a time. Mr Gilbert accepted the roles of Don Pedro and Antonio, while Miss Ross requested some smaller role, saying she had just enough breath for such, but no more. Hannah, having finished her most urgent tasks, and being now more at leisure, became the Hero who was destined to be slandered, and to 'die.' Whilst they debated who would take on the crucial parts of Beatrice and Benedick, another knock sounded at the door. Hannah's surprised welcome to Mr Burke was heard by all in the parlour; several immediately began plotting how best to entice or induce Mr Burke into staying and participating in their romantic comedy. When he appeared in the doorway, he was most warmly received. The valet was patently surprised to see such a company assembled, but courteously returned the greetings. Seeking out Miss Ross, he addressed her separately.
"Lord Auldbury has just today received some new medicines which he thought might be of use to you, Miss Ross. He advised me to take an airing, saying I have been too long indoors, preparing for our upcoming gathering, and asked that I might deliver them to you. I found no one at your cottage, but Mr Grahame, passing me as I was about to return to the Hall, suggested you might be here." After handing a carefully wrapped package to the nurse, he turned, as if to leave once more.
"You are just in time, Mr Burke! We are in desperate need of a Benedick." Beth looked at the valet with smiling consideration in her eyes, an idea forming in the back of her mind.
Mr Burke arrested his movement toward the door, turning toward the young lady. "I beg your pardon, Miss Beth. A Benedick?"
Miss Ross, having given Beth a long, thoughtful look, took pity on him and explained, as Miss Rose, normally so glib with words, and mistress of every situation, especially those of a scholastic nature, seemed disinclined to do so in this case. "They have been reading 'Much Ado About Nothing,' Mr Burke. Apparently this room has been witnessing a most laudable and entertaining performance of this work. It was begun as a sort of living lesson for Julia and Phoebe, but, as they and several others have been obliged to leave, we, as newcomers, are being asked to each take a part, for a time." A mischievous smile lit her face as she regarded the tall man. He had previously bowed politely and greeted each person present, including Miss Rose, whose seat was now a little in the shadows. No hint to his thoughts, were they inclined toward anything of an interesting nature, could be discerned in his expression; the teacher's face remained equally inscrutable, as it had been since the arrival of this last guest.
"Do say you will stay, and help us, sir," Beth pleaded.
Mr Hobart added his own hearty persuasion, unwitting of how his natural affability was aiding and abetting Beth's plan. "Yes, do, Burke. You will make a fine Benedick; I am quite convinced of it. You can surely show us how it is properly done in the great theatres!"
"Very well, then, Miss Beth, Mr Hobart. I yield to your kind invitation, if the rest will have me. His lordship instructed me to give myself a good airing - he did not specify as to whether this was to be literal or metaphorical. Since he was so imprudent as to be imprecise, I will choose the latter. Who are the other players?"
The list was gone down. Ralph and Hannah, both grinning widely, offered to take on Dogberry and Verges, in addition to Claudio and Hero, remembering the roles from their own schooldays with Miss Rose. These particular characters were also declared welcome comic relief from the passionate love and anger required by the others. Miss Ross, by this time a little recovered from her exertions of the day, accepted the parts of Ursula and the Friar.
Miss Ross as the Friar - another well-suited role, thought Beth. "Now, only one part remains," she remarked innocently. "We lack someone to play Beatrice."
"Perhaps you would like to read it yourself, Miss Beth," suggested Miss Ross, grinning wickedly at the young girl, sure now of the direction in which the thoughts churning in that young head were tending.
"Oh, no! I do not read at all well enough for such a demanding, such a pivotal, role! Surely someone else will be found to play Beatrice much better than I. If you please, I much prefer the variety in reading several smaller roles."
Hannah, suddenly sensing amusement in the air, and in the discreet, conspiratorial glances between Beth and the nurse, joined in, forwarding their plot. "Miss Rose, I have heard you declaim this so beautifully. Won't you speak it now?"
Ralph added his concurrence, unknowingly aiding the three ladies. "Yes, indeed, Miss Rose. You were so very convincing when you spoke it for Hannah, Stephen and me."
"But, I--"
"It's been gae too long since ye've honoured me with a readin' of any sort, Miss Rose. Ye'll no' deny me the pleasure of hearin' ye tonight, now will ye, lass?" wheedled Mr Burns, who had been sitting silently by, shrewdly observing the glances flitting from one feminine face to another, remembering the perhaps not-so-idle gossip of twenty years ago, regarding the master's valet and his children's governess.
"N-no, of course not, Mr Burns, but--"
"You will not escape, my friend. And it is of no use pretending you do not remember the part. I have heard you too often, with almost all your students, using this as an early example of Shakespeare allowing his characters to grow and change within, instead of simply reacting to coincidences and circumstances without. You know the part of Beatrice backwards and forwards, I'll warrant!" Miss Ross' words allowed for no further debate.
With each argument - her face flushing slightly with one, then paling at another - Miss Rose's reluctance, plain to see, was being worn down.
There was a silence - a silence of blissful ignorance on the parts of Ralph and Misters Hobart and Gilbert, a silence of hopeful expectation on the parts of Beth, Hannah, Miss Ross and Mr Burns. It was a silence of embarrassed indecision on the part of Miss Rose, and of blank inscrutability on the part of Signior Benedick-to-be.
"Very well, then." With paled but resolute face, Miss Rose resumed her place as director, nominally, at least, of this performance, while feeling, perhaps, more a puppet played with strings from above. "Shall we proceed? Act II, Scene III." As the books were re-distributed, Beth's countenance was alight with pleased anticipation. Miss Ross observed the teacher closely, though her glance was one of amusement tempered with concern. She was suddenly dubious of the wisdom of forcing her friend into such a position, to speaking words which might be painful to her. But, perhaps this is exactly what each of them needs: an opportunity. And, after all, it is ultimately not in my hands.
Chapter 7, Part 5 Continued ~ A Time to Mourn and a Time to Dance
Before the reading resumed, fresh tea was prepared by Beth and Hannah, cups being circulated together with the seed cake brought by Mr Gilbert. While the newly arrived players looked over the lines and speeches which were to be theirs, Beth leaned back in her seat, positioning herself for the best possible view of the faces of both 'Beatrice' and 'Benedick,' and meditated on how well this play fit, in following - or foreshadowing, perhaps? - the events taking place in Auldbridge, or the story of some one or other of the persons present in the Burns' home this evening.
Visitors expected, after an absence of some time, after travels which might have been fraught with danger, but which had resulted in no losses or injuries of note - that would be as appropriate for Lord Auldbury himself, and Mr Burke, as for the guests coming to the Hall. A dance to anticipate - though it was unlikely that Lord Auldbury's ball would be a Bal Masqué. Highly unlikely, indeed, that there would be any guest assuming a part, disguised, every word spoken allowing for hidden meaning. Just as unlikely was the thought of some treachery or intrigue to be carried out by one or more of the distinguished assemblage of persons. No, in that respect, the gathering at Auldbury would likely be a very commonplace, unremarkable event, quite unlike the fateful gathering in Messina - and that would be all for the best! But, for the present company, similarities to the play might be fulfilled - dare she hope? - in the promise of a possible romance, for two who had been parted. This substitution of players, now, an intermission, if you will, was very like a play... or like a ball, where, between dances, partners often changed. She mused about those who had been players or 'partners' thus far, about the scenes played, and the scenes yet to come, her thoughts flitting from one to another.
While Phoebe's Benedick had been well-played, the age and gender of the player notwithstanding, the character had been most dismally paired with the seamstress' Beatrice. Miss Goldsmith, slow in reading, and imparting no feeling to the words she had spoken, had not even understood the significance of the interchange between Don Pedro and Beatrice, let alone others! She obviously wished to have been partnered with Mr Grahame, somehow - and not only for the evening. It had not taken many meetings in the presence of them both together for Beth to note this. What the gentleman thought or felt was more difficult to discern. He treated all women around him with equal courtesy, whether young or old, single or married, attractive or repulsive, and had displayed no marked partiality towards any woman in whose company she had yet seen him. The thought of the well-looking, sensible, intelligent vicar matched with the dithering, fatuous seamstress was revolting to Beth's romantic sensibilities, an ill-suited match less to be desired than no match at all.
So much for those who scorned matchmaking as a worthwhile endeavour. Here was that meddlesome office performed - purposely undertaken - not only by a man, but by a prince! And what triumphs he had had in exchange for his arduous labours. But, the matchmaker had been left un-matched. What a pity that Don Pedro had not been provided with a wife, that the Bard had not seen fit to have such a worthy man deserve a happy ending, himself. He would seem to have been eminently qualified as a good husband, being wise, wealthy and good-humoured. Similarly, it was a small wonder that Mr Grahame was not yet married, rather less a wonder that Miss Goldsmith clearly wished for his attentions. Surely his lack of an arm would prove no hindrance to anyone who truly loved him. Beth, herself, no longer noticed it, and found him simply to be cheerful, kind and gracious, a true gentleman in manner if not in station. Far from being the narrow-minded, sanctimonious clergyman she had always envisioned, condescending to preach at those in his congregation from some lofty position of assumed righteousness, he used examples of his own weaknesses and temptations from the pulpit more often than not. He spoke of everyday matters, not of theological treatises. He would certainly make an excellent husband, if not for Hannah - here Beth grinned self-deprecatingly, to think how wrong she had been in her early thoughts, her own matchmaking - then for some other fortunate young lady in Auldbridge.
Ralph and Julia had made for quite a fetching couple. He might wish for someone a little older in reality; although, in a few years time... How kind it was of him to have read with such a willingness to please, not only his old friend, Mr Burns, but the little girl, as well. Beth had not expected him to read and playact as well as he had. It was apparent that Miss Rose's skills as a teacher were quite good, and to be highly commended on the strength of her pupils' performances this evening alone, the former as well as present pupils. Of those pupils, Hannah's good future was assured, in her engagement to Stephen, and, despite the misfortune of her lameness, in her own excellent character and diligent ways. It seemed Ralph had ambitions to follow in Mr Burns' footsteps, and could not have better ones to follow. What would happen to each of the small girls in several years' time? How many years would pass before Phoebe renounced her disdain of marriage and embraced it with some village youth? For renounce it she surely would. She would not likely be such a one as Miss Ross. Would that they were both spared my own fate at the hands of a handsome villain!
Early in the first Act, a line from the then-Beatrice had almost set Beth to laughing inappropriately, in that the words might better have been directed at the speaker herself.
I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.
Miss Goldsmith was forever talking a great deal on concerns both great and little, spinning out tales that might best be told with brevity, or not told at all. One should learn from others' sad examples. Beth devoutly hoped that, should she be doomed to be an old spinster of eight and twenty, like Miss Goldsmith, she would never become such a talker that others would be glad to see the back of her, and dread the sight of her coming. It was good to know when to hold one's tongue. Well said, Sir Bard! Although, it was a comfort to be able to speak one's mind and one's heart and to know that there were at least one or two who would mark what one said. Mrs Taylor and Miss Ross seemed to have inexhaustible patience and interest in those around them, and suffered long in listening to many a seemingly endless discourse by one or another of their neighbors. Such patience and forbearance were rarities indeed! Little wonder that they were both so much loved by all in the village.
Benedick's requirements, just being read, in a most convincing manner, of the lady he could love, seemed admirably to fit Miss Rose, herself, except for being rich, for that the teacher most certainly was not. Nobility, as far as Beth was concerned, could come in many forms; Miss Rose had proved herself noble in bearing with the terrible ordeal of losing her eyesight. And, though the teacher was not a musician in playing an instrument, her voice was quite pleasing. Beth had enjoyed hearing her clear, pure voice singing during church services.
...wise... virtuous... fair... mild... noble... of good discourse, an excellent musician...
All in all, quite a good portrait of Miss Rose, in Beth's considered estimation.
The conspiracy embarked upon by Don Pedro, Claudio and Leonato, following Benedick's monologue, allowing him to overhear their loud pronouncements telling of Beatrice's secret love for him - so very comical! Would it even occur to them that what they were saying of 'Beatrice' might possibly be true? What fun! Beth would have given much, at this moment, to know the whole history of Miss Rose. That it had something to do with Mr Burke she was now more inclined to believe, hard as she had struggled against the notion earlier in the summer. Perhaps Mr Burns, with his love of kindly gossip, could be persuaded to part with some tidbits of information, some hint of the mystery. But, surely they would all know of anything concerning the teacher. There seemed to be no secrets in this village, or, at least, none that remained secret for any great length of time, Beth reminded herself, unhappily glancing down at her gown.
Benedick's judgement on believing what he had overheard seemed the height of reason:
I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.
Ah, but knavery could hide itself in many forms: in kindly-seeming old men, or in handsome young ones, of which her present circumstance was sad proof. How ironic that the villain of this piece was named John! Had 'her' John behaved with as ill-concealed villainy, would she have been as easily drawn in? Beth would like to think not! Yet, wisdom after the fact was all too easily seen and appreciated, which was before concealed or ignored. The Bard had allowed Don John to deceive even his own brother, though perhaps not so very credibly, before the truth was exposed. Many villains, likely, appeared no different than other men, sported no horns, bore no outward marks nor evidences of villainy before their evil deeds were exposed.
...but doth not the appetite alter?
Indeed, grimaced Beth inwardly, thinking that the appetite for the eternal love she had received, passionately professed by 'her' John, had, it seemed, very quickly altered to something of a much lesser duration than eternity!
Now, for the women's roles in spreading the net for Beatrice: Hannah and Miss Ross, as Hero and Ursula, were speaking their parts with great conviction. Was there perhaps more to their words than would meet the ears of an unhearing listener, more in their glances than would touch the eyes of an unobservant onlooker? Miss Rose quoted her own lines with a flush - of consciousness, perhaps? Did Beth only imagine a faint quiver in the voice which spoke the last entreaty?
What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much? Contempt, farewell! And maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such. And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.
As the play continued, Beth thought of the shame that was prepared for Hero. The colour rose in her own cheeks; she was conscious that the accusation, which Hero had not deserved, could, quite justly, be leveled at her. Would not any worthy man react as Claudio, denouncing and renouncing her in public? Her uncle would surely be as furious with her as Leonato with Hero, before the governor's eyes were opened to the perfidy involved. Would there be a 'friar' so kind, to interpose his own pleading on Beth's behalf? Miss Ross was undoubtedly an excellent person to play the part of Friar Francis, with her faith in God, her charity and her wisdom. Mrs Taylor had offered to stand by her, to take Beth's part before her uncle. Would Mr Grahame be so generous, if - no, when - he knew of her shameful plight? Would her uncle, thinking her dead, forgive her more readily than if she were alive?
She dying... shall be lamented, pitied, and excused...
The 'friar's' final words to 'Hero,' though spoken in quite a different context, were very apt, indeed.
This wedding day perhaps is but prolonged: have patience and endure.
Hannah's wedding day had been, not prolonged, but postponed, and not for such a very merry circumstance, either. She and Stephen would have been married now, had it not been for the suddenness, and serious nature, of Mr Burns' illness. For them, as for Hero and Claudio, a deeper grief and a time of mourning was yet to come before their joy would be fulfilled. But, too, as Hero and Claudio, reunited at last, seemed even more devotedly in love than before, perhaps this unwelcome time of waiting and separation would yield a love yet deeper and sweeter for Stephen and Hannah.
Listening to the scene between Benedick and Beatrice - each confessing his love for the other, then Benedick balking, at first, at the proof demanded of such love: the killing of his own friend and comrade, Claudio - Beth's thoughts churned. What a wretched choice: a newly avowed love, or a tested and trusted companion-in-arms; Beth's own choice, defying Colonel Brandon to prove her affection for 'her' John, had been unfortunate, and without as good cause. On one side, her recently avowed 'love,' and his desires, his 'appetite,' on the other, her uncle, and his expectations for her. She had chosen poorly. Would someone fight a duel, on account of me? Be willing to kill, be killed, to die - for love of me? Most improbable! My virtue would hardly be worth fighting for, let alone dying for! Perhaps for someone as good as Hannah, or Miss Rose, but surely not for me. She was distracted from her thoughts to see Miss Rose's hand flinch, ever so slightly, as if she had felt a touch, as 'Benedick' spoke of kissing Beatrice's hand, before leaving to do as she had bade him.
Earlier - with Beth reading the words of Conrade, the gentleman - she, Mr Hobart and Mr Gilbert, as Don John and Borachio, had made a convincing trio of treachery, as they had plotted and planned, in great contrast to their other roles, and to their own true characters. Indeed, Beth had heard more from Mr Gilbert in one hour this evening than she had heard in the three and one half months since her arrival in Auldbridge. She had previously encountered him only in the company of his wife, who, adhering most faithfully to the injunction for women to keep silent in church, seemed to claim all other times and places as her own especial province for speech.
The various scenes and exchanges with Ralph and Hannah as Dogberry and Verges had everyone nearly in stitches, and they themselves had difficulty in keeping their countenances, and speaking their lines with any gravity. Dogberry, in particular, with his nonsensical pronouncements, and everlastingly mistaken words, sounding much like a small boy using long words to impress those around him, surely had the most subtly comical speeches written.
You are thought to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch......for the watch to babble and talk is most tolerable and not to be endured.
...thou wilt be condemn'd into everlasting redemption for this.
...if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship.
I humbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry meeting may be wisht, God prohibit it!
Mr Hobart spoke Leonato's anguish over Hero's dishonour with such warmth, that Beth almost expected to see him turn in violence on poor Ralph. The grieving father's complaint of advice so glibly given, spoken in answer to his brother's urgings, rang with bitter truth:
...men can counsel and speak comfort to that grief which they themselves not feel...
So very true! Despite the great kindnesses shown her by Mrs Taylor and Miss Ross, the sole person who could truly know Beth's struggles now - her regret, as she reviewed her past - her despair, as she contemplated her future - could only be someone who had, like her, been guilty of headstrong folly and shameful conduct - having been unmarried and with child.
Beth enjoyed reading the part of the Sexton, the first honourable and intelligent person to perceive the betrayal involved in the slander of poor Hero, well imagining what joy and relief his explanations, though not included in the play, would have given a father such as Leonato.
To Beth's wonder and growing admiration, Mr Burke showed himself to be a versatile and dramatic player, in notable contrast to his customary self-effacing manner. He provided unexpected depth to the words of Benedick, and a few surprises, as well. He rendered several songs, indicated in the text, in a rich, more-than-merely-adequate tenor, putting melodies to the words sung by other characters in the course of the play, as well as by Benedick, during the latter's attempt to express his love for Beatrice in rhyme. The valet explained, in reply to the impromptu applause and compliments of the assembled company, that these tunes had been used in a London performance he had once attended. They had pleased him enough that he had determined to remember them.
Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.
While listening to this speech earlier in the evening, Beth could not imagine that Mr Burke would have need of such counsel. It was difficult to imagine this modest, respectful man accused of undue pride; and, his conduct towards ladies, as far as Beth had been able to observe it, had never been one of disdain nor contempt, but only of greatest courtesy, if a trifle reserved. From what was spoken of him in the village, he had, over the past twenty years, been treated ever more like a travel companion, almost an equal, to Lord Auldbury, than a servant. His lordship's requirements in servants was well-known; while he treated all fairly, he did not suffer fools gladly, nor would he stand for any dishonesty, incompetence or sloth. That being the case, the testimonials to Benedick's character, from several characters, whether in jest or in earnest, would seem to fit Mr Burke quite as well as Benedick's all-graced woman's good attributes fit Miss Rose.
...he is of a noble strain, of approved valour, and confirm'd honesty... a very proper man... very wise... valiant... the man doth fear God...
All together, a man from whom any woman should be glad to receive attentions. If there had been some prior attachment between the valet and the governess, what could possibly have been the cause of a break between two such worthy people?
Serve God, love me, and mend.
With these words - had Mr Burke spoken them with a special depth, a particular sincerity? it was difficult to know - Beth thought she spied a hint of tears in the blind woman's eyes, quickly hidden as Miss Rose bowed her head as if in appropriate response as the Lady Beatrice. Did she wish them to be spoken in earnest, and not just in play? Would there be found someone, somewhere, who would speak such words of comfort, healing and love to Beth? If Miss Ross were to be believed and her hopes trusted, then there might yet be such a man.
Beth's reflections and musings ranged widely during the evening's entertainment, from one dramatic line being led down one path of thought, then recalled, by herself being called upon to read, or by the laughter of others. From high flights of fancy or depths of self-pity and absorption, she was drawn back by mirth and comedy, and thence to the unselfish and lofty desire that she might try her own hand at effecting some lasting good, of a romantic nature, in this village, in return for all she had received. Perhaps, if all went according to her hopes, aided by her own modest efforts, there might soon be found in Auldbridge one less spinster, one less bachelor, and one happy couple more.
The evening wore on; the play drew to its inevitable happy conclusion: conspiracy and crime discovered, true villainy unmasked and vanquished, the characters, of some, changed for the better, having grown through trials and tribulations, and lovers acknowledged and embraced, or reconciled and reunited.
Even as a masterpiece of a bygone century was being played out in the humble house of a carpenter, the overly-long time of preamble in Auldbridge, and in London, by now become tedious to all, was at long last to cease; the overture was coming to an end. The players, the motifs, the histories had all been introduced, or, at the very least, hinted at. With a final spate of last-minute words, with a final rapid rill - not to close in a crashing, sonorous chord, but fading sweetly away - the main Act was about to begin.
Chapter 7, Part 6 ~ A Time to Mourn and a Time to Dance
The curtain rang up on a lone man, the steward of Auldbury, making a last full circuit of the grounds before the guests were to arrive. As he reached the rise overlooking the main drive, a lone carriage could be seen, coming from the direction of the London road, with a lone occupant, a carriage with which he was unfamiliar, but which he had been expecting. Mr Brownleigh, I presume...
Eliza Brandon! John Blevins' reflections on the journey from London had been disordered. The name 'Auldbridge' had struck a chord; looking through his accumulated notes on Eliza Williams, he had come upon the older information, supplied by Sir John, about the mother's last days. What odd turn of fate was taking him to the very village where Eliza Brandon had spent the last months of her life? Would that he could find the younger Eliza so close to London; but, that was hardly likely. However... Perhaps someone there would be able to give him information about the elder Eliza, possibilities of which John was not yet possessed, details unknown even to Col Brandon. The housekeeper with whom they had lodged, whose name he had noted, perhaps she... But, after so many years! The nurse would be of no use. She had most likely been a woman simply passing through, or called from London, and was certainly gone, dead herself, or living and working in some other hamlet. No, John could not expect his two most maddening puzzles to resolve themselves in one place, two games to be brought to checkmate with one move alike. He would be fortunate, indeed, if the enigma of the forgery alone were to become clearer over the next days or weeks. More than that, he could not, should not, expect.
John had enjoyed the drive into the country, despite the last few miles of road not being very good, obviously not well-traveled. The weather was fine, the heat seeming less oppressive once London had been left behind; a fresh breeze blew. He was well-pleased with the countryside, and even better pleased with Auldbury itself, upon his arrival. If, as Simmons had inferred, there had been additions made, they had been most tastefully accomplished, and perfectly integrated, with nary a sign that the graceful building had ever been less than it now appeared. The flawless symmetry of the great house - its parapets and chimneys, its mullioned windows, its walls and gates, even extending to the plantings of trees, shrubs and surrounding gardens - especially pleased John's sense of what was proper. That opinion was shared by his valet, who had shown his pleasure with appreciative glances at all. His initial flood of enthusiastic words at being informed of the invitation had astonished his employer, but the valet had soon resumed his usual dignified, and more stoic, manner.
The rooms Mr Blevins was shown to were generously-sized, and agreeably furnished, with a good view, and within convenient earshot, of a particularly pleasant garden spot, complete with a pleasantly situated bench. His mind churning with all the possibilities presenting themselves for the time to be spent here, he left Simmons to unpack and settle in, while he was taken to the study to meet Lord Auldbury, his employer, to some certain extent, his host, and my uncle, he reminded himself. I must not forget that!
The way was led and the door opened him by a parlourmaid, a pleasant-looking young woman, and he was ushered into a room of well-proportioned size and well-thought out furnishings. Years of considerable use and equally considerable care were evident. Just as evidently, all had been chosen with an eye for quality and purpose, rather than fashion. An older man stood near the desk; he looked up at John's entrance, his expression courteous, but reserved. "Welcome to Auldbury Hall, Mr Blevins." The two men surveyed each other with discreet curiosity for several moments before Lord Auldbury waved John to one of several chairs near the fireplace. During colder times, these would undoubtedly face the warmth of the hearth and a welcoming blaze; today, they were so placed as to provide a view of a wide terrace outside the French doors.
Mr Blevins continued his study of the Earl. He saw a man who stood, and sat, straight and tall, with an unstressed, innate dignity about him, an air of authority. Sorrow had taken its toll on the face, but lines speaking of laughter were still to be discerned where they had been etched about the eyes and mouth during happier times.
"So, Mr Blevins, or, I suppose I should begin calling you by your alias at once, so as not to make a mistake in company."
"I agree, my lord; my thoughts exactly. Such a misstep, on either of our parts, might defeat the purpose for which you and Lord Cantering have gone to a great deal of trouble."
"Then, sir, you will be 'Jonathan' to me, if you have no objection, and I will be 'Uncle' or 'sir' to you. If we begin so today, I will be less likely to trip myself up over the next fortnight, in general conversation. Now, I understand you have been very active on our behalf already. Lord Cantering has explained the sorry situation to me. I must admit to being both shocked and grieved that one of our number would take part in, or, worse still, be the leader, the instigator of, such an insidious scheme. I would be glad to assist you, but fear I will have little to add to the intelligence you have thus far collected. I am sure my friend has explained to you that I have been but little in England for quite some time now. Of the older members, those I count as friends, I can not fathom their complicity in any dishonesty. The younger, more recent, members of our group I know by reputation alone, if that. You, most likely, know more of them than do I."
"I would be happy to hear anything at all of them, sir. Every fresh outlook serves to build a more complete picture out of all the puzzle pieces available to us, and will allow us to eventually find those which do not quite fit. There is another possibility, sir, which I hesitate to mention, but I feel it must be considered, and hopefully disposed of, before we continue." John paused, loath to offend, or raise suspicion needlessly. "As you doubtless know, we seem to be dealing with someone having extensive resources at his disposal, a thorough understanding of art, or dealings with artists, and some connections with France. Is there any possibility, however slight, of someone in your own household, taking advantage of your travels abroad, and your extended absences from home..." He looked for any sign of affront or indignation, and was relieved to find none. Instead, the older gentleman appeared to be giving the suggestion serious thought.
"No, I really feel that to be unlikely. Although well-trained and educated, in each of their stations, they none of them are French, nor have they any French relations or connections, nor any extraordinary training or interest in art, other than some sincere appreciation of it. You understand, I believe it out of the question simply from my knowledge of their characters. Mr Carter I have known all my life - he was born in this village - while Mr Johnson has been with me five and twenty years. It is highly improbable that anything could have been carried out on this estate without the knowledge or consent of one of these two men. Laying aside my own prejudices, from what my friend has told me of the business, I do not think it possible for anyone here to have been involved in any such intrigues. If you find evidence to the contrary, I may, of course, be forced to alter my opinion, however unwillingly."
John, relieved that this delicate point had been successfully broached and dealt with, went on to ask other questions pertaining to the final guest list, the events planned for each day, the arrangement of the estate - or rather, with regard to this last, those particulars fitting for a nephew to be acquainted with. The two spoke for almost an hour. Before taking his leave to begin his explorations of the house and grounds, John thought to ask one final question, of quite a different nature. "There is an acquaintance of mine who once had business in Auldbridge. He spoke of a woman whom I would like to meet, if possible. Do you, by chance, know a Mrs Georgette Foster, sir?"
"A Mrs Foster? No, I don't believe... Oh! Perhaps you are speaking of Miss Hetty? I have not heard the name Georgette Foster for many years, now." A smile spread over the Earl's countenance, softening his features. "Everyone here simply called her Miss Hetty. I am afraid she died some years ago. She was a most excellent seamstress, an excellent woman in many ways. If you have need of such services, our Miss Goldsmith is quite adequate. If it is something of a simple nature, perhaps even someone on my staff could be of assistance to you."
"No, thank you, sir. It was not professionally I wished to call upon her, merely to do with someone who lodged with her long ago."
"Ah, yes, she always had lodgers of one sort or another, as I recall. She liked the feel of a full house, she said, and could not bear to be alone after living on board ship with her husband, and then in a home with five or more children."
John murmured a noncommittal reply, then, disappointed, but not surprised, took his leave. So much for anything more about either Eliza! If the woman is no longer living, and if she had such a constant stream of lodgers, then hearing something of one woman thirteen years ago will be as unlikely as asking at an Inn in London.
During the remainder of his first day, John became thoroughly acquainted with the grand house - not wishing to lose himself twixt bedchamber and dining room in the presence of the other guests - and with the staff. He found himself impressed with their simple yet very correct manners, and manner, towards him, as well as towards his lordship, and their quiet competence in all their work. Simmons' own conclusion, given after several days, was that the house was as well-managed as any in England - no small praise from this man of high standards and decided opinions! Although not as a rule willing to credit first impressions with complete and unerring accuracy, John Blevins had been forced to become a good judge of character in a short time, on pain of disastrous, potentially fatal, consequences. He did not find himself at all averse to soon exonerating the entire household from all hint of suspicion.
In the evening, restless to begin his work, but seeing nothing else to be successfully accomplished that day, he found himself on the road toward the village, with one of the footmen from the Hall as guide. The young man, fresh-faced, cheerful and eager, reminding John of his own recently-installed footman, was more than willing to point out all the laudable scenes in the village - his own birthplace - which would do it proud. The two soon became the due focus of much attention.
On this fine summer evening, tea and supper went uneaten, dirtied dishes left untouched, and sundry indoor chores undone. Chancing to glance out, and seeing an intriguing young man - a stranger - well-dressed, amiable and handsome as to countenance, in company with one of their own from the Hall, one villager after another discovered some pretext to find themselves on the street. An errand could no longer be put off, a task neglected not one moment more, nor could this or that neighbour do without a long-forgotten article, borrowed, and now to be returned without another day's delay. Once out, it was only natural and polite to greet the two men. Doing credit to his trusted position at the Hall, the young footman showed no little circumspect discrimination - surely one of many invaluable qualities which had recommended him to this position with the Earl - introducing his companion to only some select few of the many who spoke to him. Jonathan Brownleigh, nephew of their own Lord Auldbury, was most courteously greeted and enthusiastically welcomed, and followed by many a curious glance and whisper - of which he was thoroughly aware.
His impressions of the village were of a pleasant, peaceful place filled with affable folk, proud of this their small piece of English soil, who were also - and understandably so - inquisitive. For their part, Auldbridge's inhabitants were subsequently in complete accord - whether over tea, chance encounters or business dealings - finding this near relation of his lordship to be just what he should be, showing a commendable and most flattering interest in so soon inspecting the village. The talk surrounding this vanguard, as it was assumed, of all the guests expected, was meat enough, juicy and succulent, to feed the gossips and satisfy their appetites 'til the next arrivals should provide more.
On his second day, the much-talked-about young man rose early, and began to explore the grounds of Auldbury Hall.
Stephen Hobart arrived at the stables, surprised to find someone an earlier riser than he. On nearing, he recognized the form of the newly-arrived stranger, Mr Brownleigh, the purported nephew of his master. A well-looking man, not much older than I, he discovered in surprise, elegantly dressed, even at this time of day. He must keep his valet busy! He appeared more humble, and carried himself with less of a swagger, though, than some of the other privileged young men Stephen had met with. But, perhaps that is to be expected in any nephew of the master... except that he is no nephew, or is he? Resolutely dismissing such speculation as no proper concern of his, Stephen went forward to greet the newcomer.
"Good morning, sir. May I help you in some way?"
"Thank you, Mr Hobart. Lord Auldbury - my uncle - said that I might find you here at this time of day. I was just inspecting my choices for the riding to come. I must admit to not being much of a horseman, and so hope you might choose a steady, reliable mount for me." John grinned sheepishly, a little embarrassed at being obliged to admit to such a weakness, but feeling it wiser to do so before only one person, and that person a servant, than to have this deficit in gentlemanly accomplishment become painfully evident through an untimely tumble from his horse before the undoubtedly less charitable, more critical eyes of the gentlemen expected.
"Of course, sir. We have mounts of varying temperaments. I am sure we may find one to your liking." Walking the length of the building with John beside him, he pointed out several of the animals in particular.
At Stephen's voice and step being heard, and their own names being spoken, several horses' heads appeared over stall doors, and a whinnying and nickering commenced. The clamor for breakfast became more marked as the remaining horses awoke, and joined in with heads tossing and hooves stamping, an occasional iron-shod hoof striking a wall in overly enthusiastic demand. The two men moved out of the stables so as to continue their conversation without being obliged to shout over the din.
"I'll have to begin my rounds soon, sir. The horses are impatient this morning."
"Will there be no one to assist you, then, Mr Hobart?" John posed the query in some surprise; he had expected to see and hear of at least half a dozen stableboys and grooms at such an estate as Auldbury.
"Aye, there will be two men coming soon, and a few boys to help, but it's not quite enough, sir. It's getting ever more difficult to find young boys or men who are willing to work in the country. Most of the lads in the village would rather seek their fortunes in London, to find work in the factories, or go to sea, in hopes of war prizes making them rich men. There are ever fewer staying in the country these days. Can't understand it myself, sir. They couldn't pay me enough to work in some dark building for ten or twelve or more hours a day, going home to live in some tenement or hovel - not for a thousand pounds a year, sir!"
As John considered a suitable reply to this emphatic opinion, he was distracted by a young dog come pelting up a path, from the direction of the village. It ran directly to Stephen and raced round him several times, ending by jumping up and joyfully licking at the young man's hands. Stephen calmed the pup with a single stern command, apparently recognizing it, but with less marked enthusiasm than which he had been recognized and greeted. Holding the ecstatically wriggling body still with one hand, he looked expectantly down the path. John's eyes followed his, in time to see two figures darting behind a tree.
"Phoebe! Julia!"
Two small girls showed themselves hesitantly at his call, and slowly neared, heads hung down - one blonde, one reddish-brown - cheeks flushed. Upon seeing the stranger with their brother, Julia hung back a little, but Phoebe came on, less daunted than her older sister.
Stephen looked down at the head soon bowed before him, its chestnut-coloured hair in tangled disarray. Her bonnet had disappeared, been torn off, leaving behind telltale ribbons in mute testimony of her having at least left her home properly appareled. Her eyes remained intent on the task of her begrimed hands: affixing a stout line to the rude collar which the dog bore.
"Phoebe," he sighed, "what happened today?"
"Stephen, we tried! Honestly, we tried! But... he got away again. He didn't go into anyone's garden this time, though!"
Stephen repressed a smile at the triumph in the young girl's voice, at the progress this statement implied. "I'm very glad to hear that, at least! But, I simply can not continue to spend so much time helping you and Julia with this dog, Phoebe. If you can not keep him in order, we will have to find another home for him, perhaps with Mr Grahame."
At the mention of this dreadful possibility, Julia neared, despite her apprehensions regarding the stranger, and joined her voice to that of her sister, in vowing to do better, minutely detailing all they would do to avert any further need for so much as the mention of such a dire prospect.
Their brother said little; when their pleas and vows had dwindled to a hopeful quiet, he reminded them of their manners, by introducing them to Mr Brownleigh. Both girls curtseyed shyly, before taking firm hold of the dog and, with several last earnest promises delivered with wide, beguiling eyes fixed on Stephen's face, returning to the village. The two men watched as the girls, one on either side of the dog, now eagerly pulling them along, disappeared from sight.
Stephen shook his head. "I truly wish I had the time to help them." By way of a brief history, he explained. "The girls adopted this scamp some time ago, saving him from the wrath of our seamstress in the village. He had made a shambles of things in her garden more than once, and she had threatened to have him destroyed. The girls have asked for so little in the way of playthings from Mama and Papa, and really are good girls, on the whole, so our parents were inclined to allow them a chance with this dog, a fine, healthy fellow. They are trying their best, I can see. The dog simply needs a firmer hand, and more time than I can give it. With the lack of workers here as it is..." He turned his attention once more to the stables, where the uproar made by the horses had continued to escalate in violence and volume. "Please excuse me, sir. I must attend to my duties, now, for these four-legged taskmasters of mine. They are apt to become testy if not fed in a timely fashion, and that would not bode well for your own introduction to one of them, would it?" He flashed a grin, which John readily returned. "May we speak more at a later time, sir?" As John nodded, he turned to re-enter the building.
As he set about placating his great charges, Stephen thought about the fine young gentleman with whom he had just spoken. Whether or not he was the master's nephew, it was clear he was a gentleman: well-dressed, well-educated, well-spoken, undoubtedly of good family. How very different this Mr Brownleigh's situation and lot in life was, from that of his own. It might be nice to be so secure, he thought wistfully, with the promise of being master of a great estate at some time, or, at the very least, of being one's own master. Quickly berating himself for this rare, momentary indulgence in envy, Stephen's reflections turned to his own circumstances. He had honest work which he enjoyed, for an honest master. As a poor young man, he had been given every opportunity to better himself. He looked forward to having a beloved helpmate in Hannah, with whom to spend his days, and, if Providence so willed it, with whom to father a healthy family of his own. His future, though somewhat unsatisfactory at present, in delights and joy postponed, was still filled with every good promise of happiness.
As the young man disappeared from sight, John looked after him thoughtfully, thinking of how fortunate he was, how different his situation and lot in life was, from that of John's own. John had met Mr and Mrs Hobart the day before, while taking his turn about the village, and had felt at once the warmth and good nature of the couple, the family rendered even more charming with the introduction of the two small girls. Such a family and such an honourable, though humble, birthright were enviable to one who had had neither. As to Stephen's future - it was secure, more secure, possibly, than John's own. With an employer of Lord Auldbury's stature, his unimpeachable reputation for integrity and consideration, on an estate so well-cared for - even though not his own master, Stephen's was a situation not to be belittled nor despised. A splendid opportunity, in fact, for any poor young boy who would work diligently...
Posted on: Friday, 8 September 2000,
Author's note: This posting is dedicated to my 'Jenny,' who recently celebrated her 51st birthday. Long may she welcome and invite strangers/new friends to her parents' home, without prejudice or expectation, and share with them her most prized possessions!
On the day before the first of the other guests were to arrive, John descended the staircase hearing the murmur of voices in the entrance hall. Curious, he leaned over the balustrade in time to see Mr Johnson turning from a thin, young girl - a stranger to John - and disappearing in the direction of the servants' quarters. The girl remained behind, seated on a bench near the door, surrounded by several bundles. Perhaps a new servant being interviewed for some position in the house, thought John, or someone delivering something from the village, a message, possibly, or goods from one of the shops. He continued down the stairs, through the hall, and was about to quit the house, when he heard a voice addressing him, a sing-song voice, devoid of particular inflection.
"Good day, sir. Are you a friend of Lord Auldbury? He is my friend, and he is my mother's friend, too." The young woman had risen to approach John. Her eyes looked at him vacantly, with no curiosity, concurring with the tone of her voice, but at variance with her purposeful address.
Taken aback, John replied in kind, without thinking, "Yes, miss, Lord Auldbury is a friend of mine-- rather, he is my uncle." John corrected himself hastily, though doubting this young woman would be any threat to his identity or to his work. He saw now, that, though looking to be at least as old as he, she carried herself awkwardly, and was cradling what seemed to be a large doll in her arms. Poor thing! A simple girl from the village, or one of the farms, come begging, no doubt.
"Oh, Lord Auldbury is your uncle! Uncle Johnson is my uncle. He is my mother's brother. My mother and Lord Auldbury play together often. Do you play, sir?"
Further startled by this query, John replied warily, not certain what type of play the woman was referring to. "I am not quite sure, miss."
"Oh. Well, you can listen to them some time, sir. I like to hear them play. Sometimes I hear them while I am going to sleep. They play very well together. They will play for all the guests coming here. You may play, too, sir, if you like."
Gathering from these clues that some form of music might be the 'play' in question, caution turned to ease, and John smiled. "I will look forward to hearing them, then, but I do not play, I am afraid." He decided to adopt his companion's simple directness. "My name is Jonathan Brownleigh. What is your name, miss?"
"Jenny Taylor, sir." She bobbed a curtsey. "My mother is Joanna Taylor. She is talking with Lord Auldbury now, about what they will play." Her attention shifted suddenly to a small reticule dangling from her arm. Thrusting the doll at John, "This is Beth Willison. Will you please hold her for me, sir? She needs her bonnet before we can go out again, else the sun will get in her eyes."
John found himself clutching the doll awkwardly, which Jenny quickly corrected, showing him the proper way to hold 'Beth,' insisting on it, in fact.
At that moment, a door opened, and Lord Auldbury appeared, preceded by a plump, middle-aged woman, neatly dressed, with a cheerful countenance. When they saw John and Jenny standing together, they broke off their own conversation, and moved to quickly join the younger pair. Neither seemed surprised at the sight of the young man so carefully holding a great doll in his arms.
"Mother, this is my new friend, Jonathan Brownleigh." Turning back to John, Jenny added, "You must come to my house, for tea, because you are my friend. Can you come today, or tomorrow? We will have a tea party. Do you like tea parties?"
John, flustered at an invitation so suddenly and singularly given - the young woman seemed in no doubt whatsoever of her mother's agreement to such a proposition, certain of a welcome to any friend of hers - and unsure how best to answer it, looked to Lord Auldbury, hoping for enlightenment and advice in this situation.
The older gentleman performed the necessary introduction, then watched carefully to see how this young man would react to these, his neighbors.
Mrs. Taylor greeted John politely, then apologized for Jenny's having burdened him with her belongings. "Jenny, please take back your doll, now, dear. You must not impose on Mr Brownleigh in such a manner. He will surely have other things to attend to today, and may not tend to - Beth, is it? We may also not impose on his time for tea - he is most probably already engaged - although," addressing John, "if you find yourself free, sir, we would, of course, be very happy to see you any afternoon for tea during your visit here." While apologetic and firm, she seemed in no way dismayed or disturbed by her daughter's actions or the impromptu invitation to John. Her own invitation was most sincerely given. She seemed quite at ease, calmly supervising the return of 'Beth.'
"It was no trouble, Mrs. Taylor, I assure you." John found himself struck by the woman's dignified demeanor, and touched by her unpretentious invitation. "I thank you for your kind offer of hospitality, and will be glad to accept, if my duties allow it, although I hesitate to promise it, for fear of being unable to keep my word. I am here to help my uncle on several matters of business, and am, as yet, unsure of the demands on my time."
Lord Auldbury, knowing that the hospitality most of the villagers would wish to show a nephew of his might well be overwhelming - and inconvenient, in light of Mr Blevins' true position at Auldbury - chose now to interrupt, neatly changing the subject. "You will be in for a very great pleasure, if you care at all for music, M--, my boy. Mrs. Taylor is a superb performer on the pianoforte, and I have found some exquisite music recently written, which, I believe, will appeal to our guests. I have also invited several musicians from London to join us for at least some part of our time, and a small orchestra, for dancing and chamber music. I hope our guests will be amply rewarded by hours of fine music - older, as well as new, modern, compositions. I, myself, am very much looking forward to this opportunity, with the keenest anticipation."
Mrs. Taylor's cheeks flushed at the compliment. She made no reply, however, save to express her own delight and gratitude at being given the opportunity of playing such wonderful works. Several of the living composers she had not yet even heard of; Lord Auldbury had met and heard them on his recent travels.
"Mrs. Taylor also serves as postmistress for Auldbridge, Jonathan. If you have any need for letters to be sent, I am sure she will be able to assist you."
"Thank you, sir; I believe I may avail myself of that service quite soon. I have already seen your office, Mrs. Taylor. You have a shop as well, do you not? I will certainly stop by there, as I do find myself wanting of several things."
"Please come by at any time, Mr Brownleigh. You may find me at home if you have need of something when the office is closed. Your uncle may direct you; it is not far to my cottage. If you will excuse me, now - my lord, sir," nodding to each gentleman, "I have many things to attend to today, and I must not neglect these," she added, with a smile and a twinkle in her eyes, indicating the sheaf of papers she held, covered with music notation. Collecting Jenny, and looking around to make sure nothing of hers had been left behind, Mrs. Taylor took her leave. With her daughter beside her, she began to walk down the long drive, toward the old gamekeeper's cottage.
"A most admirable woman." Lord Auldbury's quiet words rang with sincerity. "Such a burden she has borne - actually, a burden she sought and knowingly accepted - and with such cheerfulness and resourcefulness!" At John's quizzical look, Lord Auldbury told him, in simple words, embellished with neither pathos nor pity, the story of Mrs. Taylor, and of Jenny. "Jenny has improved so in these twenty years. One would not believe such a thing conceivable, thinking of the pitiful creature she was when she first came here. Each time I returned from my travels, I found her to have learned so much - very much more than I would have thought possible."
"Mrs. Taylor must indeed be an extraordinary woman. How has she managed to teach her so much? Has she any special education, as a governess, perhaps?"
"No; she has used, above all, I believe, common sense, with a great deal of patience. Jenny has also been taught by Miss Rose, our village schoolteacher, who is herself a gifted and remarkable woman. She was governess to my children for a time..." Lord Auldbury's voice faltered briefly. "She is blind, now, but teaches still, and does so quite astonishingly well. She, too, has been forced to learn much since the loss of her eyesight many years ago. From both Miss Rose, and from Jenny, I have seen what is possible for such persons to accomplish, with patience, training, and some ingenuity. They will set the example, I believe, with several others here in the village - our vicar is also such a one - for the school I wish to found. Many individuals without the full use of their persons, or of their minds, may still learn, be prepared for some practical service, and enjoy useful lives, without being an undue burden, living on the charity of others, being sent to the poorhouse, or, worse still, dying an untimely death in some forsaken alley. Here in the village, Jenny has also enjoyed the advantage of not being simply shut away from others, to live in some comfortable but confined way. She was allowed intercourse with succeeding groups of children, those whose parents permitted it. This may be a key in helping such unfortunate persons - allowing and encouraging them to become a part of a community, having association with normal children as well as others with defects or weaknesses of varying sorts."
"Perhaps the other village children benefited just as much as did she, sir?" suggested John.
Lord Auldbury glanced at the younger man with appreciation for his interest and perception. "That is most probable. It is certain that she has had a mutually beneficial friendship with Miss Rose, lending her her sight for some things, while the teacher has 'lent' Jenny, one might say, her cleverness. Permitting such persons to develop and use strengths and talents as they might have them, while aiding them where they are in need, will, I am convinced, be of benefit to all concerned."
Looking after the thin girl walking away from them, carefully carrying her doll, he continued, "Despite any efforts on our parts, though, I doubt many of our pupils, however successfully taught, will be as fortunate as Jenny has been. She did not only find a place to live, but a home where she is truly loved and valued, just as she is, by her friends and, especially, by her mother. For Mrs. Taylor has, in every sense but the physical, been a mother to her. Once decided on her course, she would not be dissuaded, though never legally bound to the child. She received an offer of marriage not one year after the death of her husband - shortly after she had taken Jenny in - from a London gentleman of some means, who greatly admired her musical talent. He would not, however, welcome Jenny into his home as well, and did his best to persuade the woman to give her up, to place her with some other family, even offering a considerable sum of money to that end. The child had just begun to accept this as her home, and to trust Mrs. Taylor; she would not see Jenny uprooted again."
"Remarkable and admirable, indeed," murmured John, turning to catch a last glimpse of the slowly receding figures before they rounded a curve in the road, his estimation of and respect for the inhabitants of Auldbridge, and of his host, rising with each day spent among them.