It seemed to me afterward like a particularly happy dream, traipsing along by Mr. Bentley’s side, through the ethereal landscape, with our easy rapport restored. We came upon the back of the Cottage, traveling across the kitchen garden and up to the kitchen door. Reveling in Mr. Bentley’s company, I found myself unwilling to go inside. Once I went in the door, the night was over.
I looked at Mr. Bentley, and he at me, and a moment passed. Suddenly he gripped my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’ve done it again, despite all my vows.”
“Done what again? What vows have you broken?”
“I’ve allowed my feelings to override propriety, and I’ve been totally unfair to you.”
“Please, explain. How have you been unfair to me? It was just an exciting interlude.”
“Much more than that to me, but I have no right to say so.”
The happy warmth that had suffused me shrank into a cold, hard little ball as I felt us getting to the heart of the matter, but still I asked, “No right? Why not?”
“I’m not free, Miss Brown. I am betrothed to my cousin, Amy Wallingsford. I have been since childhood. I can only beg your forgiveness for my conduct. In the beginning I told myself I meant only to befriend you, but my feelings—I have no right to mention them.”
Suddenly everything fell into place with irrevocable force. The name he had called out in his illness: Amy. “No,” I said, flinching as if from a blow. “No. No, you don’t have any right to speak of your feelings, and I’ve no right to mention mine. But you’ve nothing to apologize for. You’ve behaved every inch the gentleman.”
“Please understand, it was my father’s and my uncle’s idea, before I was even old enough to object. Amy and I were practically raised together, and we’re so close, it would be unforgivable of me to break it off. She’s already planning the wedding.”
“Then say no more,” I urged, shrugging out of his grasp. “It will be an easy matter for me to stay out of your way. You needn’t fear that I’ll make things difficult for you. I’ll give up going to Reverend Snover’s on Saturday nights.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, the look of torment back in his eyes. “You see, I leave on the morrow. I’ve been called home—I don’t know for how long. My brother, the viscount, is very ill, and I’m required to manage the estate’s affairs until he is well.”
I was temporarily struck dumb while I took this in. He was going away. Tomorrow he would be gone.
Finally, I recovered my voice. “I am so sorry to hear of it. I hope your brother recovers swiftly. I suppose I shan’t see you again for some time, then. It will be easier that way. I’ll take my leave now, Mr. Bentley, and wish you all the best,” I said, forcing the polite words out of my mouth even though I could feel my heart splintering.
I opened the door and entered the kitchen, only to find it in almost complete darkness, with just the dimmest glow from the fire banked down in the hearth. A rush of cold dread sent shivers down my spine.
“Mr. Bentley, could I ask you for one last act of chivalry?”
“Name it.”
“Could you walk me to my quarters? You see,” I confessed, “I’m afraid of the dark.” Never had I confided this to another soul, and I waited, stiff-shouldered, for the scoffing rejoinder. It never came.
“Of course,” he replied, as naturally as if I had said, “May I borrow your umbrella? It’s raining.” He felt around on the mantel until he found a candle, and managed to uncover some embers with which to light it. “Lead the way,” he said, handing me the candle, and we wended silently through the halls and stairways to my room. His solid presence calmed my fears, even as I struggled with the realization that this was the last time he would walk by my side. All too soon, we arrived at my door. A quick glance within reassured me that Betsy had left a fire burning for my return.
I set the candle down on a side table, searching for the right words. “Thank you, and Godspeed, Mr. Bentley.”
At that he moved toward me, and kissed me on the cheek, but that was not enough. He reached for me, and I for him. We held each other in a tight embrace, as if the whole world were ending. With that bear hug, I told him everything I felt for him, everything I had dreamed of and hoped for with him, and all of my grief, and I felt his love and sorrow flow back to me in his strong arms. It seemed to last forever—or was it only a few moments?—until I wanted so much more, and I could no longer ignore the voice of warning within. I separated myself from him and stepped back, tears in my eyes.
“Let us not have anything to regret,” I gently chided. “I would rather leave you with your conscience clear than full of tormenting memories.”
He laughed softly to himself, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “How like you to worry about me when I was intent on toying with your affections. Very well. Goodbye, Miss Brown. No doubt when you see me again, I will be an old, married man, but you will always have my heart.” He stepped back, only touching my cheek with his paw in a last caress before he picked up the candle and walked away.
I nodded speechlessly, and watched the candle’s glow as he retreated down the hallway.
Morning found me bleary-eyed and numb, searching for a way to go forward with my life. I would lock away the broken pieces of my heart, and live with what was left. I thought it could be done; people lost limbs, or eyes, and somehow managed to get along with what remained. A heart was not so necessary, after all. I still could go through the motions of my life. I was grateful that Mr. Bentley had been honest with me. At least now I understood, and I knew it wasn’t because he didn’t love me. I thought that perhaps I should be trying to accept the truth gracefully—to be content to wish him and his bride every happiness. I knew that something more was required of me: that I should pray, for his sake, that he would eventually forget me. But despite the fact that he belonged to another, I clung to the knowledge that his heart was mine! This sat uncomfortably on the jagged edges of my conscience, but I could manage no better.
I wondered if Mr. Bentley had departed as yet. The thought of being left behind here while he took his leave was unbearable, and so I forced myself to go to church, despite the state I was in, it being somehow less terrible if I was not here when he left. I walked to the little church alone, unwilling to share my thoughts with anyone, and unwilling to have them interrupted. I sat in the back and forced myself to take an interest in what was going on around me. The service was packed with all sorts of villagers who were very interested to hear what their beloved minister would have to say about last night’s developments. Entering the sanctuary, as if by some unspoken understanding, the humans and the Enchanted split off from one another and took up positions on opposite sides of the aisle, giving tangible proof of the growing divisions in what had always been a friendly congregation.
Reverend Snover was inspired that morning. Betsy had quietly pointed out to me that some very important members of the Anthropological Society were there. Mr. Babcock sat ostentatiously in the front row, decked out in a checked waistcoat and matching trousers and a large bow tie, and wearing an expression of the most profound disapproval. And yet, spurred on by the injustice of the outrageous curfew, the humble clergyman fired a cannonade of denunciation that echoed in the rafters of that little church, and rattled the consciences of those within. In a speech born of outrage and love, his rhetoric soared like thunderheads streaming on a wild wind, so that afterward many swore that their hymnals had been blown shut, and their hats had tumbled away. Then, holding their attention in the palm of his hand, he quieted to dulcet tones, enticing his flock back to sanity and kindliness, and exhorting them to love their neighbors. This last was delivered with such eloquence that sniffles could be heard on both sides of the aisle. Still, some prominent citizens, Mr. Babcock chief among them, remained unmoved. Indeed, they sat so stiffly that it appeared their spines might snap with the strain. I wondered what trick of logic or rationalization allowed them to remain so impervious.
Reverend Snover closed the service with the announcement that Constable Murdley’s young daughter had succumbed to illness during the night, and asked for the congregation’s goodwill and prayers for the Murdley family. Everyone murmured in sympathy and assent, even among the Enchanted, who had presumably suffered many an injustice at the hands of Constable Murdley over the years. Despite this moment of unity, when the congregation lined up at the door to greet the minister and shake his hand, there remained an awkward distance between the human and Enchanted members of the congregation, and some left by a side door rather than face one another. Mr. Babcock, however, made a point of walking past Reverend Snover as if he had not seen him.
When my turn came to greet the reverend, I thanked him for his sermon, and asked him about the fate of Reverend Wright, who had run off to get himself arrested the night before, and was now nowhere to be seen.
“Ah, he’ll be fine,” Reverend Snover declared. “Only his pride was hurt that no one would arrest him. He wandered around half the night looking for law enforcement. Three times he found them, only to be sent on his way with a warning. They didn’t want him, you see, him being a clergyman. All he got for his trouble was a nasty cold. Mrs. Snover’s tending to him over at the vicarage.”
I felt a flash of sympathy for the unlucky curate. I had the thought that it might distract me from my own wretchedness to do a good deed and go cheer him up. Choosing between that and an afternoon alone with my own suffering, I made my way past the churchyard to the vicarage, knocking at the kitchen door. Mrs. Snover and Maggie were busy preparing Sunday dinner, but Mrs. Snover led me into the parlor, where Reverend Wright sat bundled in blankets by the fire, with his handkerchief at hand, soaking his hind paws in a pan of hot water.
“Oh, Biss Brown, how kind of you to cobe,” he enthused, his eyes shining feverishly. “Do sit down.”
“I’m so sorry to see that you are sick, Reverend Wright. Can I bring you anything? Some tea, perhaps?”
“Oh no. Bissus Snover keeps be well supplied. I was only needig a little copany. And here you are.”
“I’m afraid you’ve had a difficult night of it. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, that is hardly ibportant. Feelings pass. What is ibportant is to do what is right and needful, don’t you think?”
“Is that why you went rushing out to face the deputies last night?”
“I suppose it was righteous indignation. And, well, vanity.”
“Vanity?”
“Yes, I bust confess. I was hoping to … to, well, hoping to ibpress you.”
“Well, you see, Biss Brown, I’b very glad you’re here. I have subthing to ask you,” he said, blowing his snout into his handkerchief. “I believe there is a proper forb to follow. Please forgive be if I ab not doing this correctly, but, well …”
Dragging his blankets around him, he stepped out of the pan of water and went down on one knee before me, creating puddles on the parlor floor. “Biss Brown, will you barry be?”
I nearly recoiled with astonishment. At a loss for words, I was suddenly reminded of Papa’s injunction to be kind to gentlemen offering marriage, whatever your answer might be. “Reverend Wright,” I began, thinking fast, “you take me by surprise. It’s a very great compliment, but how did you settle on me? You barely know me!”
“Yes, well, you see, Biss Brown, since first we bet, I have been observing your conspicuous virtue and ladylike debeanor, not to bention certain talents that would be bost helpful and attractive in a clergyban’s wife: a certain social ease, for exabple, which I’b afraid I lack. It is clear to be that your influence would bake be a better and bore effective pastor. I ab convinced that you are precisely the sort of febale I should like to have as a help-bate in by vocation.”
“Help you in your vocation? That sounds very businesslike, Reverend Wright. Am I the first female you have made such an offer to?”
“Well, there was another, shortly after by graduation frob sebinary. A very ebotional febale, as it turned out. It ended rather badly.”
I marveled inwardly at his impenetrability, though it seemed more like naiveté than callousness, and I thought I might try to be of help to him.
“Perhaps you neglected to mention anything like romance to her?” I hinted.
“Oh, but I don’t believe in baking such a decision based on subthing as changeable as robance. Far better to deterbine suitability with the intellect and good sense. By own parents had such a batch, and they got on rather well together. Of course, by buther has barely spoken for the last thirty years.”
Seeing that it was hopeless to guide him to any other way of thinking, I considered it best to give him my answer quickly: a standard speech Miss Pinchkin had counseled her charges to have always at the ready. “Reverend Wright, I am sensible of the great honor you have bestowed on me, and I believe you will make some fortunate female an excellent husband one day, but I must tell you that what you ask is impossible.”
“Did I do it wrong?” he asked, despair written on his face. “Perhaps you are overcub by by ibpetuosity? Perhaps in tibe you bight look on the batch bore favorably?”
“No, Reverend Wright. It is only fair to tell you, my heart belongs to another.”
“Oh? But I don’t bind. That needn’t be an obstacle—unless subone has already bade you an offer. Are you hitherto engaged?”
The question pierced my heart like an arrow. How I wished I could tell him I was. I cleared my throat and said, “That does not signify.”
“Oh? Then you’re not engaged?” said the bear, sneezing vehemently. “Perhaps I bay hope?”
“Reverend Wright, do get up. This can’t be good for your cold. I’ve given you my answer. Please accept it. Here, now put your feet back in the pan. Shall I add some more hot water?”
The dejected bear raised himself unsteadily, slumped back into his chair, and sighed. “I suppose,” he said. I fetched the teakettle from the kitchen, asking Maggie to mop up the puddles, and I returned to the parlor and poured steaming water into the pan.
“Now, would you like me to read to you? Something amusing, perhaps? Gulliver’s Travels?”
“You would read to be?”
“Of course. Can we not be friends?” I asked, moved by my own aching heart to treat him with sensitivity.
He smiled broadly as I adjusted the blankets about his shoulders, settled into the chair opposite him, opened the book, and began to read. “ ‘My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire; I was the third of five sons.’ ” I read on for some time, until Reverend Wright seemed relaxed and sleepy, and the awkwardness of the sudden proposal was forgotten. We parted amicably, and despite the absurdly businesslike nature of his offer, I reflected that it was, after all, my first proposal. I should feel complimented, but I was overwhelmed by the thought that it was from the wrong bear. I felt myself tearing up at the cruel irony, and though Mrs. Snover put her head in the door and invited me to stay for Sunday dinner, I politely turned her down and took my leave.