Winter To Spring
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Bleak House
Copyright: Public Domain/BBC
"Oh! My lord, I am so sorry. I did not know anyone was here."
Esther backed away from the tall stone monument, hot and cold with shame at having been found there. The Dedlock burial ground was private property, and she had no right to be trespassing like this. She should have remembered that on the anniversary of Lady Dedlock's death, of all places, she would not be the only person here.
"Miss Esther Summerson, I believe."
"Yes, sir. That is … I am Mrs. Woodcourt now."
"Ah, yes … yes. I thought I might find you here."
Sir Leicester Dedlock stood watching her, without any trace of the anger she had expected, but with an expression she could not read. She had never spoken to him, and only seen him once: at a distance, in church, during her first visit to Mr. Boythorn. He had changed so much she would scarcely have recognized him: his round face withered like a fallen apple, his shoulders stooped, his gray hair as thin as dandelion fluff. There was a slur in his speech she would have guessed had not been there before his apoplexy. He leaned heavily with one hand on a gold-topped cane, carried a bouquet of white lilies in the other, and was dressed in deep black mourning. Changes or no changes, as he stood before this monument in the chill dawn of April, he could be mistaken for no one but the widower of Lady Honoria Dedlock.
The question was, how did he know her? And what was his motive in searching for her here?
His answer to her unspoken question, after bending down with a painful creak of joints to place his flowers beneath the monument, was to reach into his coat pocket and hand her a bundle of letters. They were tied with a pink ribbon, and addressed in a sweeping, elaborate hand to "Captain Hawdon".
Esther gasped.
"I know the truth, you see," said Sir Leicester. "I purchased these … from some low characters attempting to blackmail me. They told me … more than I ever wished to know."
His face crumpled into even deeper lines of suffering. Esther could hardly bear to look at him.
"Have you … read them?" she faltered.
"Certainly not." A touch of his former haughtiness made his thick voice a little clearer.
Of course not. Judging by everything she had heard of him, his sense of honor would forbid him from reading anything not meant for his eyes. It relieved her slightly to know that, even in the middle of her unease.
She smoothed the faded silk of the ribbon, felt the softness of the yellowed pages. She was holding a part of her parents' lives in her hands, given to her by someone she would have expected nothing from but a cold resentment of the fact that she existed.
"Thank you, my lord." She tucked the letters deep into her skirt pocket. "Thank you."
"It is your right to read them."
They stood opposite each other for a long moment, neither speaking, neither making a move to walk away. Two strangers, and yet both linked in such deep and complicated ways to the woman buried underneath this granite column. A few steps further, and they would lose each other's faces in the morning mist rising from the grass, and find themselves alone with the birds and the stone vaults. Yet she could see his face as clearly as anything, and in it she read an emotion that was all too familiar: the aching regret born lost love.
"And so, Mrs. Woodcourt … you are married?"
"I am."
"And … do you trust each other?"
"Always."
Allan, who was staying with her as a guest at Mr. Boythorn's house, had watched her dress that morning without asking where she went. The compassion in his eyes had told her he already knew, and she was grateful beyond words. He knew the whole of her unhappy past and loved her all the better for it. How could she not trust him?
"Good." Sir Leicester's cane was unsteady under the pressure of his hands, bowed down by a greater weight than ever. "Very good."
In that moment Esther surprised them both, first by darting forward to steady him with both her hands on his forearms, then by the words that burst out of her despite herself.
"My lord, please – whatever you believe about – about Lady Dedlock, never doubt her loyalty to you. She kept her secret from you because she feared that the shock would affect your health, which – forgive me – it clearly has done. She told me so, the first and only time we spoke in private. It was for your peace of mind, and for your family credit, that she kept silent all these years."
Sir Leicester shook his gray head ruefully as he stepped out of her hold. "What you mean to say, I suppose … is that my lady thought I valued my family credit above her. But the worst of it, the very worst, as always … is that she was correct."
He found it necessary to turn his back on her for a moment, in order to make use of a black-bordered linen handkerchief. Esther pretended not to see it.
"My mother loved you, Sir Leicester. I swear upon this monument that she did."
He turned around, saw her place her ungloved hand on the stone with the same care she would have used to touch her living mother, and gave her the faintest shadow of a smile.
"I accept your word, young lady," he said, placing his own hand next to hers for a moment. "You are … very like her, you know."
"Am I, still? Even now?"
She tugged self-consciously at her veil, which she still used to hide her face in spite, or perhaps because, her smallpox scars had been fading for months. She still remembered how morbidly thankful she had felt for them, telling herself her illness was worth it if only the scars canceled out her resemblance to her mother, at the same time as she struggled with the shame of her own ugly reflection in the mirror. If the lace was thin enough for Sir Leicester to see through, how many others could see it?
"Mrs. Woodcourt … Esther. Have no fear. This is not a likeness anyyone could trace. My lady's face and manner were better known to me than my own … and infinitely dearer. You are very like her."
The old Esther of the days in her godmother's house would have been mortified by this, filled with self-loathing for being such an obvious symbol of her mother's disgrace and Sir Leicester's loss. It must have hurt him even to look at her, and yet he spoke to her almost as if she were his own daughter.
As she was now, however, the ward of Mr. Jarndyce, chosen sister of Ada Carstone and beloved wife of Allan Woodcourt understood. Memories of loved ones were precious even when they hurt you, and love could easily grow to include the most unexpected changes.
She did not wish for a father in her life, and quite frankly, she would not have chosen to grow up as a pampered, useless Miss Dedlock for anything in the world … but she could never have too many friends, and she could sense that Sir Leicester very much needed a friend.
"I am honored, my lord. Thank you." She gave him what she hoped was a comforting smile.
"Now … would you be so kind as to show me to the way out of this park? My friends will be waiting."
"My privilege."
Sir Leicester bowed and offered her his arm, accepting what they both knew was a little white lie. She knew perfectly well how to get back to Mr. Boythorn's place, but if it gave the frail old gentleman an excuse to lean on her for as long as possible, she would take it.
"By the way, Esther … if I may call you that?"
"Certainly you may, my lord."
"Would you do me the honor of calling upon me tomorrow afternoon? Some of my staff will be very pleased to see you, I believe."
"Mrs. Rouncewell and Sergeant George? Why, yes, how are they?"
"Quite well. Quite well."
"I should be happy to see them."
"And I, of course, would be pleased to receive you at Chesney Wold."
Their polite exchange was partly, she knew, for Sir Leicester's benefit, to recover his dignity after she had seen him display such emotion. He had changed a great deal, but in some aspects he would always be the "effigy of a baronet" Mr. Boythorn had so rudely described. But the undercurrent of warmth was still there, especially when he spoke of welcoming her to the house where her mother had been mistress for eighteen years. As they walked along the gravel path between the tombs, watching the morning sun slip along the first crocuses of spring, the weather was not the only change they sensed for the better.
The legend of the Ghost's Walk spoke of a vengeful Lady Dedlock's limping step, prophesying death and disgrace to the bloodline of the man who had destroyed her. But there were two sets of steps now across the grounds of Chesney Wold: one limping, one strong and supportive. One male, one female, walking side by side. The rumors would pass, were already passing, and the last baronet would spend his remaining life in an atmosphere of mutual care and respect.
In this way, after so many years, the curse might finally be broken, and the Ghost allow herself to rest in peace.