2
That Sunday week, Father discovered a pair of new parishioners in the receiving line after church. "Ah, newcomers!" he exclaimed. "We are always most gratified at any addition to our flock."
"And we are glad to receive such a warm welcome in your charming neighbourhood," said the man, who appeared to be in his late twenties, dressed in a blue tailcoat of a modern cut and new boots. "I am Thomas Nighthorn, and this is my sister, Mrs. Burgess." The latter was a woman considerably younger than her brother, and nearly as tall as he. She wore a fine chemise dress, though not in the latest fashion; a mass of light brown curls peaked out from beneath her bonnet.
As the pair were the last through the line, we had the opportunity for further conversation. It soon came out that Mrs. Burgess was a widow, and had moved from London for her health. "The air in town did not agree with me," she said. "I remained only because of my husband's posting at Deptford. But, alas, we lost him in the Glorious First of June."
"Your husband was in the Navy?" asked Mrs. Simmons.
"Yes, he was captain of HMS Eagle, which took many casualties in that great battle."
"Oh, you poor thing, all alone here, save for your brother," said Mrs. Simmons. "When will we see the end of these wars? There's scarce a family has not been touched by them. We are missing our Jamie, Miss Elizabeth's brother, who is off in the colonies."
"And what will you do now?" my father asked.
"We have taken a small house in Leighton," Mrs. Burgess replied. "Unfortunately, Thomas' business keeps him much occupied in London. I will attempt to make myself useful in some way. I'm sure you can recommend charities to me, Mr. Collington."
"Indeed I can, and they will be glad to have your assistance," Father replied. "My daughter also has a passion for aiding the poor, and never fails to make the rounds of our less fortunate neighbours." Father hesitated only a moment before offering, "I hope the two of you will join us for dinner on Wednesday. I am sure we can arrange for half a dozen guests from the neighbourhood to expand your acquaintance. Perhaps the Viscount Burnside and his family will consent to join us." He turned to Anthony, who stood nearby, and gave a slight bow.
That gentleman, always careful of his manners, dipped his head in return. He was of middling height, with blond hair cut shaggily about his ears. His fine tailcoat, waistcoat and breeches were all of muted colours, greys and whites. "As much as I regret missing any opportunity to welcome newcomers to our neighbourhood," he said, "I must sadly decline, for we will be off to London for the season that very day." His blue eyes, full of earnest regret, slid from Father to me as he finished delivering this news.
"And I must regretfully answer in the negative as well," Mr. Nighthorn put in, "as I return to London tomorrow. But I am certain my sister would be glad of the company."
"Indeed I would," she said. "But you are too kind, Vicar. Please, do not put yourself out to assemble a large party on my account. I will be quite content to further my acquaintance with you and your charming daughter." And here she turned to smile at me, leaving me wondering what I had done that she could have found charming. We parted soon after.
The news of Anthony's departure for London and its accompanying reflection – that he was likely to be surrounded by dozens of marriageable girls in that city – gave me only a moment's pang of jealousy; for, unlike Father and Mrs. Simmons, I had long since ceased to think it likely a match could be made between us. Anthony and I had known each other from a young age, as the Parsonage and the parish church sat on the eastern border of Holbourne, Lord Highdown's ancestral estate. Anthony was four years older than I, and had only recently returned from Oxford, where the Earl had sent him to study the law. He was a good sort, always the perfect gentleman, attractive in both person and manner, and attentive to my family's needs as a friend and neighbour, as was Lord Highdown. The latter had always humoured our friendship, as befitted the patron of Father's living and neighbours of different ranks living so close by, precisely because a match between us was impossible. Lord Highdown was imperious, always conscious of rank and wealth, and confident in his ability to rule his son, the heir to the Earldom and clearly meant for grander things. Whatever Anthony's feelings toward me may have been, a connection with my family could offer neither money nor status; nor did I sense that spark of passion within Anthony that would compel defiance of his father's wishes.
To all of which, Father and Mrs. Simmons had counselled patience and a willingness to put myself in the way of Anthony's affections. My future security depended on it, they said, as few other eligible bachelors lived in the vicinity, and opportunities of meeting those beyond our neighbourhood were scant. Father regretted not being able to send me to London for the season, but that was for families with better connections and greater fortunes than our own. And so they persisted in believing that a match with Anthony was my best chance an establishment in life, despite its slim likelihood. In every other respect, Father was a sensible man, yet on this one topic, he persisted in letting his care and ambition for me cloud his better judgment, in contradiction to everything he had ever taught my brother and me on the topic of governing our emotions with reason. From this I concluded that the cares and demands of parenthood were enough to unbalance even the most composed of minds.
Since our mother's death, Jamie and I had been brought up by Father to meet whatever life put in our way, all of its highs and lows, with equal reserve and composure. With a clear-eyed view of my prospects, I could readily admit how this approach to life could aid me, and I endeavoured to follow it, succeeding to a great extent in outward appearances, if not in my inmost thoughts. For, as I looked around me at what life was for women of my state, I could not help but admit a certain restlessness, one which took all my composure to master. In conversation with the five or six female friends my own age in the neighbourhood, I always remained polite and amiable, while inside I chafed at the insipidity of the conversation, the constant talk of the latest fashions, the prospects of any new young men coming to the neighbourhood, or which girls had been recently engaged. Surely there must be more to life than an endless list of ornamental acquisitions gained in hopes of finding a match with a partner of indifferent affection. There must be more, once such a match was gained, than shallow conversation and entertainments within a social sphere of six or eight neighbouring families, more than endless rounds of visits and balls and good works that did little to relieve the sufferings of the poor.
Nor did an advance in rank offered by a match with Anthony promise a necessary improvement, for not even a girl of eighteen, raised in a small parish in Devon, could remain ignorant of the scandalous pursuits by which the nobility sought to relieve the tedium of life, most notably that grand personage within our own shire who had been revealed as the author of that notorious novel, The Sylph. Only in those ranks inferior to our own did I see a style of life unmediated by rigid social convention and deference to one's betters. Perhaps it was a romantic notion of mine, but I imagined that the common people we met in the village and the countryside had a freer form of life than our own.
Thus, if I attended those pursuits by which a young woman makes herself acceptable in genteel society – needlework, drawing, music, reading (of the best novels and poetry only) – with an air of perfect concentration and enjoyment, this did not always mean that my mind was not engaged elsewhere; for I found I had a knack for making idle conversation or practicing at the pianoforte while my thoughts drifted to exotic scenes from a novel I had been reading, or to the moors where I delighted in taking long walks. In inclement weather, I found my composure challenged to the utmost, but on fine days I always took the opportunity to relieve my restlessness with lengthy rambles, during which I delighted in looking for my favourite flowers as the blooming season progressed.
Among all my improving pursuits, it was in my riding lessons that I found myself most fully engaged. Lord Highdown had been kind enough to allow me the use of a well-trained mare at any time of my pleasing, along with the expert instruction of his groomsman. I often took advantage of this generosity, relishing the freedom of the wind rushing past my cheeks as we cantered over the moors, wondering how far I might go if I chose to ride in a single direction for an entire day. My favourite were the fox hunts, to which Jamie and I had often been invited. I cared nothing for the fortune of the sportsmen – in truth, I preferred it when the poor fox got away – but I thrilled at the wild chase across fields and over hedges and streams. Of course, riding aside, I could not truly keep up with the men, but I prided myself on being able to take small jumps. None observing me might have guessed at the joy I felt on these occasions, owing to that same reserve which Father had instilled in me.
If, on this Sunday morning, Anthony's announcement had caused me little pain, it was no doubt in part due to that self-mastery which Father had taught me, but also because my thoughts were engaged elsewhere, as they often had been over the week that had passed since our encounter with the highwayman. The intervening period had given me much opportunity to ponder the loss of the necklace, as well as the feelings the experience had occasioned. It was only with difficulty, and not always with success, that I could keep my mind from wandering back to that event. I did not dwell on the fear and danger posed by the highwayman brandishing his pistol at me. Neither, as much as I sympathised with the humiliation Anthony had undergone in being robbed at gunpoint, and the fear Mrs. Simmons must have endured, were these the objects to which my mind was continually drawn back. No, it was to those moments during which the highwayman had so lewdly assaulted my person that my thoughts continually strayed, much as I attempted to draw them back to their proper course. I could hardly admit to myself that his kissing and his roving hand had occasioned something of the same thrill I experienced while riding – that, and something more.
It was unthinkable! Every consideration of sense and morality counselled that such feelings should be prompted only by one to whom I had been promised in marriage, and certainly not by a rogue with a pistol. Yet so it was, and now I met the prospect of Anthony's departure for London with an equanimity of which my Father should have been proud, though for a reason he could never have expected.
Wednesday morning arrived, and Father sent me into Leighton, but a mile's walk from the Parsonage, to call on Mrs. Burgess and renew our invitation for that evening. I was putting on my bonnet in the foyer when a knock came at the door. Our housekeeper opened it to reveal Anthony.
"Oh, begging your pardon, I see I have caught you on your way out," he said.
I gave a curtsy and replied, "I was just on my way to Leighton. Will you walk with me?" Mrs. Simmons gave me a knowing look as I passed out the door.
Anthony was silent as we made our way out the gate and down the lane toward the village. It was a beautiful morning, with the sun providing unexpected warmth. Our way was bounded by blackthorn hedges, now alive with the calls of the linnet, while the masses of delicate white flowers gave off a musky, sweet scent. Holbourne's pastures, sloping upward from the valley through which the lane ran, shone a brilliant green.
Remembering the reason Anthony could not join us for dinner that evening, I asked, "Are you not off to London today?"
"We leave within the hour," he said. "I wanted to pay my respects before departing."
"It is most appreciated," I said, employing that cautious reserve through which I had always hoped to safeguard both our hearts, though now my preoccupation with the highwayman also played a part.
The silence lengthened between us, and I wondered if this was all he meant to say. I was searching for a different subject for our conversation when he went on. "Is there no chance your father will send you to London for the latter part of the season?"
I allowed him half a smile, careful not to let my gaze linger too long on his bright blue eyes or the smooth skin of his high cheekbones, tanned from his recent outings afield. "I'm sure he's worried that an eligible bachelor would capture my heart and take me far from home." Anthony knew as well as I that Father had not the means to send me, along with Mrs. Simmons, to London. "No," I continued, "he is quite happy that I content myself with Devonshire society. It does not trouble me."
He was silent for several moments more, then said, "I wish I could stay in Devon. Town is not for me. Too crowded, too many people to know and their ranks to keep track of. I prefer it here in the country. I don't see what London has to offer."
"What is there to occupy you here, now that the sporting season has ended? Most gentlemen are quitting the country as quick as they can and making their way for the delights of the city." I kept my gaze firmly on the lane ahead of me, unwilling to lead him farther into danger.
"Much, Elizabeth, much," he said, stopping in the lane and placing a hand on my arm.
That was the moment at which, to please Father and Mrs. Simmons, I should have turned my pleading eyes upon him and asked, in all innocence, whatever could he mean? Following which, he would no doubt pour out his heart and kiss my hand, pledging that he would stand up to his father in choosing a mate. But I knew how that would end, for I was sure that Anthony had not the heart to defy his father for long. And even if he did, where could it lead, with a brother waiting in the wings to inherit the title and the estate, if Anthony were to throw them over in favor of a life with me? Would Anthony commit himself to a life of relative poverty and humiliation in order to marry me? I was certain not. The inevitable result would be heartbreak for us both, the loss of our friendship, and my own reputation sullied as the foolish girl who had been taken in by the frivolous romances of a nobleman.
Now I was glad for all my father's training, as it allowed me to steady myself for what I must do. I turned to look at him, masking my true feelings with more playfulness than I felt. "Come now. I haven't a doubt that you will be a great hit at the ton. Half of the eligible girls will be falling all over themselves to capture your attentions. I am certain you will make your parents very happy and proud."
He stopped and turned to gaze at me, struggling to maintain the same attitude with which I had addressed him. I could see in his face that the thought of defying his parents' wishes and proclaiming allegiance to his own heart was flitting across his mind, and then the change as his upbringing as a gentleman and heir to the Earldom asserted itself. "You have always been my greatest friend, Lizzie," he said. "You always have much better sense than I do."
"You sound as if you are off to war! I hope we will be the greatest of friends for years to come, when our children are playing together on family visits."
I gazed at him as calmly as I could, then we continued our walk, maintaining our silence until we reached the joining of the lane that led to his family's estate, where we bid our farewells. I continued toward town, conscious of a certain hypocrisy in urging my friend to ignore the demands of his own heart after years of acquaintance, when I could not quiet my own thoughts after one kiss from a stranger, and a rogue at that. I was glad to have the distraction of a new acquaintance to divert my attention as I approached Mrs. Burgess' house in town.
An elderly serving woman admitted me to the parlour, where I found Mrs. Burgess at work on a piece of embroidery. She greeted me cordially, rising to shake hands, and I noticed again how tall she wore a white morning dress, with her brown hair done up in a mass of curls at the top and a fringe falling in back to the base of her neck. She mentioned how glad and grateful she was for the invitation to dinner that evening, her smile lighting up her whole face, the skin around her brown eyes crinkling.
I asked her how she had hit upon Leighton as a site for her new abode.
"Oh, I am only a tenant here for now. I had thought of finding a fine house in Exeter, but the woollen industry there makes the air unhealthy, and I was troubled by the recent riots. Perhaps soon I will find a house within my means to purchase in the country hereabouts. In the meantime, I am glad to find such welcoming and congenial neighbours."
At this point we were interrupted by the housekeeper bringing in the tea things.
"I hope you don't mind," Mrs. Burgess said, as she set about to pouring the water. "I know it's not the time for it, but I thought you might enjoy some refreshment after your walk."
I consented, though I thought it a bit odd, and we continued talking about village life and the weather for several minutes longer, until I realized I was in danger of overstaying my visit. As I was making my excuses and rising to leave, Mrs. Burgess reached across the space between our seats and placed a restraining hand on my arm.
"Oh, please, don't rush off. The Captain and I never held with these rules of decorum that require visits of such a length and no longer. If we are enjoying each other's company, why should you not stay as long as you like?" She said it with such energy and affability that I could not deny her. "Besides," she went on, "you haven't finished your tea, and I have yet to learn what are your favourite books and music, and what beaux are vying for your attentions at present."
"Oh, I have beaux without number," I said with a casual air.
"Well, of course you do!" she said. "With such a fine manner and attractive – " She broke off as I looked at her steadily. "Oh, you mean you have none! You quite took me in." She smiled, as if quite pleased to have been gulled in this way. "But you have no suitors? I find that difficult to credit."
I mentioned the light populace of our region of Devonshire, and the surprising plenitude of young ladies compared to gentlemen. I did not mention Anthony. "But in truth, it is not a topic to which I give much thought," I said, hoping not to continue a subject on which I had too much discourse with my other friends.
"I quite agree," she said. "Too much contemplation of one's prospects can be gauche." She offered me a biscuit, which I declined. "And what of your family? Mrs. Simmons said your brother is overseas?"
"Yes, these past two years. He was in India the last we heard. We are only grateful his ship has avoided engagements with the French, though he regrets the poor opportunities for action and renown that have so far come in his way."
"And your mother?" she asked. She took a sip of her tea, as if she had just asked about the weather.
"She passed when I was ten," I said, looking down at my own cup.
"That must have been difficult," she said.
I nodded, staring at the swirling patterns my spoon was making. Thus far I had enjoyed this unusually intimate introductory visit, but now we had entered on a topic which was hardly appropriate for such an occasion.
The silence between us lengthened. "I lost my own mother when I was eight," Mrs. Burgess said. "It took me quite some time to realize she was gone forever. Did you find that with your own loss?"
I looked up to see her gazing at me with more concern than really proper from a near stranger.
"No – perhaps because I was older," I said, looking away from her at a drawing of a hunting scene that hung over the fireplace. It must have come as part of the furnishing of the house, I thought. I was about to ask about it as an excuse to change the topic, when Mrs. Burgess went on.
"Nothing can replace a mother's love, can it?"
Really, this was too familiar. "Mrs. Simmons has taken good care of my brother and me," I said at length.
"Of course she has. I could see the love with which she spoke of your brother on the day we met. I had a governess as well, a kind, matronly woman. But it cannot be the same, can it? The loss of a mother at such a young age – it must change one in some irrevocable way, mustn't it?"
I looked all about the room as I struggled to formulate an answer. "I hardly know. Father – Father praised me for bearing the loss so well. If I mentioned her, he would cut me off with exclaiming over the bravery I had shown up to then."
"So it did change you."
I nodded. "I became the brave little girl Father wanted me to be." My tea must be cold by now, yet I had hardly touched it.
"And you never grieved for your mother."
I looked up at her. It was impertinent of her to speak as if we were already intimates; yet, seeing the tender look she gave me, I felt none of the impropriety of such familiarity. "No," I whispered, my lip trembling. How quickly she had pierced my reserve!
She reached out to put a hand on my arm. "I apologize," she said. "I didn't mean to make you melancholy. It's just that I've grown so used to talking about my mother and her loss; I didn't realize it wasn't the same for you."
It was strange to realize that, in eight years, no one had shown as much concern for my mother's death as this woman of the briefest acquaintance. As unusual as it was, I couldn't think it wrong. I left her house after overstaying my visit by three quarters of an hour, thinking she would make a welcome addition to the neighbourhood.