Another Bouquet
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Bleak House
Copyright: Charles Dickens' estate/BBC
"G-good morning, Mr. Woodcourt."
Esther turned hot and cold as she watched the young surgeon coming across the lawn. Standing with Mr. Jarndyce in intimate conversation – in his garden, on a property named Bleak House – was the most awkward possible situation for him to find her. Never mind that the purpose of that conversation had been for her guardian to set her free; how was Mr. Woodcourt to know that? The last time she had seen him was at Richard's funeral, and besides the customary handshake and condolence, they had not exchanged a word.
"Mr. Jarndyce. Miss Summerson."
He returned her curtsy and her Guardian's bow with a quick nod. She dropped her gaze. Oh, God. Did he think they were here to flaunt their engagement? What else would it look like to him?
"My dear sir, it's wonderful to see you," said Mr. Jarndyce. "And how are you settling in?"
"Quite well, thank you. And how are you both?"
Esther answered automatically, barely aware of her own reply or Mr. Jarndyce's. As the three of them began to walk along the garden paths, even through the thick fog of her own shame, sorrow, elation and fear, she was aware of Mr. Jarndyce's maneuvering himself onto Mr. Woodcourt's right side, forcing her to walk on his left – smiling innocently all the while, as if he had no idea of what the younger man must be feeling. It was a look she had seen all too often on Harold Skimpole's face, and for a moment – only a moment – her gratitude towards her Guardian was tempered by a flash of irrational anger. He was playing them like pieces on a chess board.
"Would you two excuse me for a moment?" he asked casually, falling a few steps behind. "Ada is waiting by the carriage. She'll be glad to see you, sir, I'm sure."
He glanced at Esther, his smile faltering like a tired bird's wings. This is your chance, his hazel eyes seemed to say. Please take it, or my sacrifice will be for nothing.
Then he turned away, rounded the hedge and disappeared, leaving Esther alone with Mr. Woodcourt for the first time since that other walk among the roses.
There he was, two steps away, his face touched with summer sunlight, his hair gleaming like ebony against the green leaves behind him. And she was free. All she had to do was tell him –
Tell him what? Miss Barbary's bitter voice demanded inside her head. Tell him that Mr. Jarndyce means to hand you over to him like a second-hand pair of gloves? To unite himself to the disgrace of the Dedlocks? To make you a second offer when you have already refused the first? How could he possibly accept you after all this, you foolish child? How could anyone?
She blinked hard, forcing back the tears she could not let him see. Dear Guardian, why do you ask this of me? How can you understand me so well, and yet not at all?
"Miss Summerson – "
"Mr. Woodcourt, please forgive me!"
They spoke at the same time, then abruptly fell silent. Esther pulled her cloak around her, wishing the light, pale fabric could make her invisible, cursing her own awkwardness on top of everything else.
"Forgive you?" he asked. "For what?"
"For intruding upon your home in this way," she burst out, her scarred cheeks hot with shame. "Without even a message in advance. Believe me, I had no intention – that is, Mr. Jarndyce never told me we were coming here."
"Then … you would not have come if you had known?"
Was he disappointed or relieved? Looking at the hedge behind him instead of his face, she found it impossible to tell. His voice was quiet, with that faint, musical echo of Wales he was usually so careful to hide. Even now, the sound of it made her heart beat faster.
"I thought … you would prefer it if I did not," she replied.
"You thought - ?"
The sudden fire in his voice made her look directly up at him for the first time. His black eyes were bright with indignation.
"Miss Summerson, if you think I would prefer to ruin our friendship by holding a grudge for the events of our last meeting, you are quite mistaken! You could never be an intruder in my house. You shall always be welcome here."
"You are very kind," she managed to say.
Too kind, she thought. Moments like these made her want to throw her arms around him and never let go.
"I am the one who should apologize," he continued. "You are unhappy. I should have seen it before. Please, Miss Summerson, tell me what is troubling you. If there is anything I can do … "
She shook her curly head, unable to speak.
"Is it … Lady Dedlock? Do you miss your mother?"
She gasped. "How did you - ?"
"I was there when you brought her back," he reminded her gently. "I examined her remains. Do you not remember?"
"No, I do not."
She suppressed a shudder. The night she and Inspector Bucket had found Lady Dedlock's body by the paupers' graveyard was a memory she had been desperately trying to forget. She had forgotten most of it; aside from a haunting confusion of darkness, horses' hooves, Mr. Bucket's gruff voice and the terrible blankness in her mother's eyes, it was all a blur in her mind.
"You called her by that name," he said. "You were lost in grief. Mrs. Carstone and I could barely persuade you to leave the room. I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Summerson. More than I can say."
She could not breathe. It was as if the world had tilted on its axis, sending her spinning into the clouds like a hot-air balloon. He knew. He knew the sorrowful, shameful truth of her history, and he had still asked her to marry him. Even now, he was still her friend.
Miss Barbary was wrong.
For the first time in months, she allowed herself to fully remember that day on the Ghost's Walk. Her mother's face, blue eyes and thick brown curls exactly like her own; her mother's arms around her for the first and only time; her mother's story, in all its love and heartache and regret. A story which, she knew now, was also her own.
"My mother," she began, still feeling the strangeness of speaking these words out loud. "My mother loved my father. She told me so, the only time we met."
Mr. Woodcourt only listened, his sympathy touched with confusion as he wondered what she was trying to say.
"After losing him, she lost … herself," Esther continued, struggling to explain what she was just now beginning to understand. "She married a man old enough to be her father, whom she could never care for as he cared for her. She allowed her misfortunes to make her … cold."
Involuntarily, she gripped the edges of her cloak again, feeling the chill of the earth near her father's grave. Something deep inside her broke, or healed, and the tears streamed down her face for the first time since that terrible night.
"I am her daughter," she said, her voice breaking, "Her life could have so easily become mine."
She took a handkerchief out of her pocket, the same monogrammed handkerchief Inspector Bucket had traced from Lady Dedlock to her, and buried her face in it. When her eyes were clear, she found Mr. Woodcourt looking back at her with sorrow, understanding, and – unless she was mistaken – something more.
"Your blood is not your destiny," he said. "No matter what people like Sir Leicester, or even my mother, have to say. You do not have to follow in her footsteps … unless you choose to do so."
Unless you choose …
He knew what she was feeling, what she was so afraid to say. She saw it in his eyes, dark and soft as a night without nightmares; in the way he leaned toward her as closely as propriety permitted, all the while keeping his hands behind his back so as not to touch her. She heard it in the cadence of his voice. He was waiting for her.
I cannot say it, she thought, terrified. I am nothing, nobody! Who am I to ask for so much more than I deserve?
You are Esther, and you are ours, chimed the remembered voices of all those she held dear, both in this world and the next: Ada, Richard, Caddy, Charlotte, her Guardian – and her mother. As you believe in us, believe in him.
"Mr. Woodcourt," she said, "I need to tell you something."
"Yes …?"
She took a deep breath. "Mr. Jarndyce and I are … no longer engaged."
The joyful hope illuminating his face told her everything she needed to know, even though he composed himself only a moment later.
"I did not … I could never think of him as anything but my Guardian." She found herself blushing again, this time fighting back a smile. "He knows … he must know … that there is only one man I truly love."
"And who is this man, if I may ask?" he inquired with mock formality, a smile still hovering at the corners of his mouth.
Gathering all her courage, she reached out and took his hands, their fingers interlacing as simply, as perfectly, as if they had been touching all their lives.
"You," she said. "Mr. Woodcourt … Allan, I love you. I've loved you all along, since before you went away – from the first time I saw you at your work. You are so much more than a physician – you are a true healer, and nothing in this world would make me happier than to join my life with yours. As your wife. If … if you will have me."
"I am … honored by your proposal," he answered gravely, repeating her own words – then completely spoiled the effect by breaking out into a radiant smile. "And I accept."
Suddenly she was in his arms, and her head was on his shoulder, and she could smell the starch of his shirt and his clean, sun-warmed skin, and she heard herself laughing with sheer, breathless delight. Why, I sound like Ada, she thought giddily. She will be so pleased when she finds out –
Then he kissed her, and she could no longer think at all.
It might have been minutes or it might have been hours, but eventually, they came apart for air. Catching sight of the hedge behind them, she realized that the flowers blooming in it were roses – not pink and yellow roses this time, but a dark, velvety red, which gave her an irresistible idea.
"Allan," she asked, tasting the name like a strange sweet, "May I take a flower?"
"Would you like another bouquet, then, to match the first one?"
"I… I burned it," she confessed, bowing her head with remembered heartache. "It was after my illness, after my Guardian's proposal … I thought it was impossible that you could ever love me, and so I burned them. Many a time, I have regretted it since then."
She remembered the dry crackle and the bittersweet smell of burning flowers, feeling a distant pity for that girl by the fireplace as if she were a different person altogether.
"Take as many as you wish, cariad. They are already yours."
Allan picked off two small blossoms from the branches nearby, handing them to her with a bow. She breathed in their fragrance and, to his amusement, tucked them into the ribbon on her bonnet for all the world to admire. She was just about to ask him what that lovely new word meant (although she could take a very good guess), when the sound of footsteps and cheerful voices nearby distracted them both.
It was Mr. Jarndyce and Ada, coming back from the carriage arm in arm. The younger girl, although still in mourning clothes and heavily with child, looked happier than Esther had seen her for a long time, and a moment later, she realized why.
"Look at them, Cousin," Ada exclaimed to Mr. Jarndyce, in what was apparently meant to be a whisper. "I knew it!"
Knowing how much her Guardian hated being thanked (especially for actions she knew must be causing himsome pain), Esther could do nothing but look at him and pray that he understood.
Dear Mr. Jarndyce, now I see what you have done. I would have sacrificed my heart on the altar of gratitude and, in time, made us both as unhappy as Sir Leicester and my mother. Instead, you set me free. I thank you, my dear Guardian, thank you from the bottom of my heart!
(Author's Note: Cariad is a Welsh word meaning "beloved".)