The library was her sanctuary. It was not that the members of Henrietta’s family did not read – they read ceaselessly, in truth – but each member of the Carthew clan had their own favoured hideaway where they indulged this cherished pastime. Her father read in his study, half reclining – and sometimes fully asleep – upon an ancient divan. Her mother preferred the morning room for its light, though she read at a small table, her book flat, ankles daintily crossed. Her sister, Penelope, read on a window seat upon the main staircase landing where she could note all the comings and goings of servants, guests and family. Anne read always in her own chamber, propped up upon pillows on her bed – a practice much disapproved of by their mother, who thought it implied laziness if it was not downright slovenly. The inglenook by the fire was Cassandra’s preferred place, and then only in the evenings. Like everyone else in the family, she detested cards and games in general; conversation was the main entertainment of the Carthew family. During the daylight hours Cassandra was invariably to be found out of doors, even in the most inclement weather. If she was not upon her horse – and commonly she was – then collecting birds with one of the huntsmen, her poor maid for chaperon, would be her next choice. The Carthew family birdskin collection was said to be second to none and no one thought anything of setting off for some distant corner of England to seek a rare species. Their only regret was that the present war made collecting journeys abroad so difficult.
The library, therefore, was left to Henrietta. Here she read, kept up with her extensive correspondence, and worked away on her secret novel – which everyone in the family knew about.
If Henrietta had a second sanctuary it was within the novel itself, for she travelled there often, her imagination, both rich and fertile, fashioning a place almost as real as her own home. Her world within a world. At least in that world there was hope that things might work out to someone’s advantage. Heartache was followed by redemption, the virtuous were rewarded for constancy and nobility of action. The untrustworthy and the weak of will, if not punished, did not prosper in the long run – not within the length of the novel, at any rate. The world of the novel had order. Beyond the library, or at least beyond Box Hill, lay chaos. A world not under the control of one Miss Henrietta Carthew. In such a place some undeserving French refugee might steal away the affection of a man she had believed constant and noble above all other men.
She looked down at the page she had been writing and realized that tears had dribbled down upon the words and spoiled them here and there, running the ink into tiny pools. Snatching up a hanky she kept to hand for just such emergencies, she dabbed at her eyes, sat back in her chair to assess the damage to her page and released something that was half a laugh, half a sob.
‘You are absurd,’ she scolded herself in a whisper. ‘Weeping upon your precious book and ruining the pages. It is something your heroine might do.’ She took up a sheaf of paper and began fanning the spoiled page, attempting to dry the little pools in which minute veins of ink roiled slowly.
There was, at that moment, an unholy clatter beyond the door and then it burst open revealing the red face of her youngest sister, Penelope, who had apparently run from some distant part of the house.
‘She is here!’ Penelope announced much more loudly than Henrietta thought necessary.
‘And who might “she” be, pray?’ Henrietta responded.
‘Elizabeth, of course; who else have we been awaiting these three days past? She’s speaking with Mama.’
Henrietta began to rise. ‘Well, I must come then, mustn’t I.’
Penelope glanced over her shoulder and then backed up against the door frame. ‘Here she is! Here she is!’ she literally sang out, then gave a little quiver of excitement.
Elizabeth swept through the door at that moment.
‘You will not stay shut up here all day with Henri, will you Lizzie?’ Penelope pleaded. ‘She is terribly morose you know … on account of … well, we are not allowed to say his name. But she is awfully dreary and not good company at all.’
‘You may rest assured, my dear Penelope, I will visit with everyone who can tolerate my company.’
‘Promise?’
‘With all my heart.’
Pen gave another little shiver of anticipation, glanced at her sister, curtsied, and went out as quickly as she had entered.
Elizabeth Hertle drew the door closed behind her. The two women embraced. In truth, they nearly threw themselves into each other’s arms, and Henrietta found her tears flowing again and bit her lip in an attempt to staunch them.
‘How do you fare, my dear?’ Elizabeth enquired as they pulled themselves apart.
‘Poorly, if I am to be honest.’
They sat down upon the sofa, turned towards each other, Elizabeth gazing into her cousin’s face. ‘You do not look well. I am sure you have not been out of doors in a week. We will go for a long walk this very afternoon. I insist upon it.’
‘I suppose I should take the air …’ Henrietta closed her eyes. ‘I still cannot believe it of him …’ she whispered, barely able to force the words out. And then she gave way and sobbed, Elizabeth giving her a shoulder.
‘There, there, my dear. It pains me to see you so disconsolate. Clearly, Charles’s actions have made him unworthy of your sorrow.’
‘I cannot help it …’ Henrietta managed.
‘No. I do not suppose you can. Heartbreak is akin to an illness; time is required to effect a cure. In the meantime we have no choice but to endure all the pain and suffering. But we must do everything within our power to shorten the duration of this malady. Therefore, we shall walk and take the air and speak of other things besides the perfidious Charles Hayden, may he be turned before the mast.’
‘I do not wish him ill,’ Henrietta said in a small voice. ‘I cannot. He made me no promise, I keep telling myself. Even so …’ She pulled away and wiped her red-rimmed eyes yet again.
‘Indeed he did make you a promise in both word and deed and in his letters as well. And he has betrayed that promise in the most contemptible manner possible.’
‘She must be very beautiful,’ Henrietta blurted out, unable to stop herself. ‘Everyone says she is. Do you think in the end he was simply more French than English and required a French wife?’
‘I shall waste no time fashioning excuses for him. He acted in the most cruel manner towards you and I will never forgive him. Charles Hayden will never be welcome in my house again, despite being Captain Hertle’s dearest friend. I do not care. He is banished. All of his vanities about wine and food may be displayed elsewhere.’
Henrietta could not help but remember it was Robert and Elizabeth who had insisted Charles display this particular knowledge – not Charles, who was invariably modest about his own accomplishments.
‘I do have something I need to tell you, Henri,’ Elizabeth announced, taking her cousin’s hands in both of her own. ‘Captain Hayden came to my house a few days ago. I did not receive him, of course, nor would I accept even a note. But he is in London … or was.’
‘Oh …’ Henrietta heard herself say, and she slumped back against the cushion. ‘I see … Come to join his bride, no doubt. Was he alone?’
‘He was, or so I was told.’
‘Well, it is his country – or one of them – he may come and go as he pleases.’ She thought a moment. ‘He could have written to me. It would have broken my heart, no doubt, but better that than learning of his marriage in the manner that I did and adding humiliation atop disappointed hopes.’
‘It was the least he could have done but he was too cowardly. Brave as he might be at sea …’ She let the sentence hang.
Neither spoke for a moment and then Henrietta ventured, ‘How long does it take the heart to heal, do you think?’
Elizabeth seemed to believe this a serious question rather than rhetorical. ‘In my experience and from observation, six months, though I have known recovery to take a year or more depending upon the heart and how cruelly it was broken.’
‘A year,’ Henrietta repeated dully. ‘It is a long time … I do wish there were some physic that would put me to sleep for a twelvemonth and allow me to wake recovered, all my troubles behind me.’
‘Yes, that would be the answer for many a broken heart but instead we must endure. It is the English way, I fear.’ She was about to say more but the door opened quietly and a young man appeared and then pretended to be surprised in a manner that convinced no one.
‘Miss Henrietta, Mrs Hertle!’ A pleasant smile overspread his face. ‘I do apologize. I thought the library empty.’
‘Mr Beacher.’ Elizabeth smiled, clearly pleased. ‘What an unlooked for pleasure. Have you recently arrived as well?’
‘No, I have taken up residence here, at least temporarily, to bring some order to Mr Carthew’s collections. A more daunting task than I had originally anticipated.’
‘And how fare your labours, Frank?’ Henrietta asked. They had known each other since childhood and had been upon Christian names since the age of six.
‘I have had to recruit some aid to tackle the insects – a friend from school, Henry Wilder.’
‘They must be formidable insects if you require aid to tackle them.’ Elizabeth smiled sweetly.
‘You know those scarab beetles snap a man in half if he is not wary.’
‘Well do not let your guard down, by all means,’ Elizabeth responded. ‘Then we shall have the pleasure your company at dinner?’
‘Indeed.’ Beacher realized he was being politely dismissed – that he was, in fact, intruding. ‘I shall look forward to it with great anticipation. Until dinner, then.’
And he backed out closing the door behind him.
‘You have never mentioned in your letters that Frank Beacher was lodging here.’
‘These last years, whenever he is not at school, he is lurking about Box Hill somewhere. Pen is rather mad for him, I think.’
‘And who is he mad for, pray?’ Elizabeth asked, paying particular attention to the answer.
‘Pen, I assume.’
‘That would be something of a drastic change in his feelings, given that he has been in love with you since he was a boy.’
‘Oh, Lizzie, do not be absurd!’ Henrietta actually laughed, something she had not done in some time. ‘Frank is like a brother to me. There is as much romantic feeling between us two as you would commonly find between a horse and … and a dove. In truth, we hardly pay each other any mind. He is off with my father’s collections and I … well, I have been taken up with other matters of late.’
‘My dear Henri, you are so modest in your opinion of your own qualities that you interpret any man’s interest in you as merely platonic. But Frank’s interest in you is of an entirely different nature; he has been your ardent admirer for more than a decade, to which end he has ingratiated himself with your parents and all of your sisters, gaining everyone’s good opinion so that they might aid him in his pursuit of the only sister he truly cares for. You, my dear.’
‘Elizabeth, you are not being sensible. Frank has never shown the least preference for my society over that of my sisters, Pen in particular. He has certainly never spoken or said a word that would indicate the least attachment to me other than of a familial nature. No, he is the brother I never had.’ She laughed again. ‘My sisters call him “the hound”, forever trotting along after us, ever amiable, always willing to fetch whatever a lady might want. No, you are certainly wrong about Frank …’ Her look changed to something like anxiety. ‘Do you not agree?’
‘Of course I do not agree because I am not wrong. Frank has hidden his preference for you because he is by nature shy and because he is afraid that you will rebuff him. Poor Mr Beacher is waiting for you to take notice of him or show some sign that you return his feelings. He will never speak for fear that you will dash his hopes entirely for he simply cannot give up; he is hopelessly in love.’
Henrietta was now genuinely distressed. ‘Oh, my … Elizabeth, this is awful. I have never felt anything for Frank but brotherly affection. Poor Frank. Are you certain of this?’
‘Most certain.’
‘Oh dear …’ Henrietta intoned. ‘Have I been torturing poor Frank, then, without meaning to?’
‘“Torturing” might not be the word I would choose but certainly you have not been making his life more pleasant.’
‘I … I do not know what to say. Or do. Certainly I should dissuade him of any hopes he might hold for me …’
‘As kindly as you are able for I fear it will be a terrible blow to him. Since the day Charles Hayden became an object of your attention Mr Beacher has been very dejected, I should imagine, but now his hopes are rekindled, the flame growing. Snuffing it out, as you must … unless you do harbour feelings for Frank that you have never really examined—’
‘Really, Lizzie,’ Henrietta interrupted, oddly uncomfortable with the subject, ‘now you are talking nonsense. I am not that insensible of my own feelings.’
But Henrietta did feel rather foolish and obtuse. How could she have been unaware of Frank’s attachment? Perceptiveness about such matters was a small vanity of hers and here, beneath her very nose, she had failed to take notice of Frank Beacher and his feelings. Was it possible that Elizabeth was mistaken? She glanced over at her self-possessed cousin. No, Elizabeth was seldom, perhaps never wrong regarding matters of the heart. Such things were an open book to her.
An even more distressing thought came into Henrietta’s mind at that moment; did everyone know but she? Was it possible she had been that obtuse? She felt her face grow warm with embarrassment.
‘Are you well, Henrietta?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Your colour is very high.’
‘Quite well … other than this illness that time, I am told, will heal.’
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. ‘I should not have told you about Frank. You have enough concerns at the moment. Foolish of me.’
‘I am the one who has been foolish, apparently, and not only in the matter of Mr Frank Beacher. But knowledge so painfully gained is said to be most invaluable. Imagine how wise I shall be when this year is done. I am all a-shiver with the anticipation of it.’
Henrietta could hardly meet Frank Beacher’s eyes, though he glanced her way often, and rather hopefully too, she imagined. Although he had been occupying the same chair at table for some weeks Henrietta had never considered that it afforded an excellent view of herself without being exactly opposite.
Now that Elizabeth had opened her eyes she did see that he hung upon her every word, declared all of her expressed opinions most sensible, and agreed with her almost without exception. How could she have never noted these things before? Each time he most heartily endorsed one of her observations, no matter how banal, Elizabeth would glance her way, an eyebrow rising almost imperceptibly.
Worse than this was Penelope’s obvious jealousy and poorly hidden antagonism towards her. This she had long explained away as mere youthful forwardness, but now she viewed it through a clearer lens. Pen was vexed and cross with her because she thought Henrietta her rival for the affections of Mr Beacher. The fact that Henrietta did not appear to care for Frank in the least only provoked her younger sister further. How could Frank prefer Henrietta when clearly she did not return his feelings? And Pen, who could barely take her eyes from him and laughed at his poorest jest, was indulged as though she were a little sister. Poor Pen!
‘Anne?’ Mr Carthew said. ‘Have you completed the painting of the view from Cardoff Hill? I thought it was progressing splendidly.’
‘I have given it up, Father.’ Anne paid attention to her plate.
‘Given it up? But it was … perfect. Was it not, Henrietta?’
‘Very nearly so, I should say.’
Henry Wallace Carthew turned his attention upon his second youngest daughter, clearly distressed. ‘Carrying endeavours through to their completion is one of the most important qualities one can cultivate, Anne. Is it not, Mr Beacher?’
‘Certainly one can never accomplish anything of value any other way. Perhaps you will go back to it, Anne, at some later time?’
‘This conversation seems dreadfully familiar,’ Anne responded. ‘Has anyone heard it before?’
Mr Carthew set down his glass. ‘I should certainly leave off scolding you about this matter if you would but take what I am saying to heart.’
‘There are landscape artists aplenty in this country, Father, and what hope have I of competing with them? I have found a new passion, anyway. I am now entering Henri’s field and writing a novel. At least a woman might find some recognition there.’
‘Is it romantic?’ Penelope asked. ‘Henri’s book is terribly romantic – all about love and pining to be married and—’
‘Penelope!’ Mrs Carthew said sharply. ‘I do not think Henrietta is in need of your literary insights at this time, thank you very much.’
Immediately Penelope’s eyes were shining and she blinked back tears, bending over her food so that no one might notice. ‘One mustn’t whisper a word against poor, precious Henrietta,’ she muttered.
There was silence a moment.
‘Are you really writing a book, Anne?’ Cassandra asked.
Anne shrugged, concentrating on her food.
‘I should like to write books of my travels,’ Cassandra announced.
‘What travels are these?’ Anne enquired. ‘Your journeys to Hayfield?’
Everyone laughed in spite of themselves. The village of Hayfield was but three miles distant.
‘When I begin my travels. I should like to see all of the world, amass a collection to be envied and write volume upon volume about my adventures. See if I don’t.’
‘I cannot bear to wait,’ declared Anne. ‘“Romantic Adventures among the Dung Beetles” by Miss Cassandra Carthew.’
‘“Frolicking with Pygmies” by a Lady of No Distinction,’ Penelope enjoined.
‘“Touring Byzantium: It Won’t Take But a Minaret”,’ Frank offered rather lamely; only Penelope laughed.
‘You have forgotten “Escaping the Eccentrics”, by a Woman of Reason,’ Cassandra replied, hardly bothered at all by her family’s teasing.
‘Eccentric?’ countered Penelope. ‘Eccentric? The Carthew family? Why, I believe you are the most eccentric of us all – with the exception of Father, of course.’
‘I most certainly am not.’ She waved a fork in Henrietta’s direction. ‘Henri is the most eccentric but she is at pains to hide it.’
‘True eccentrics never make the least effort to hide their foibles,’ Mr Carthew informed one and all. ‘It is characteristic of such people that they never make the slightest effort to gain the good opinions of others.’
‘Actually, in our family Mama is the most eccentric,’ Anne said slyly. ‘She is practical, sensible, has no hobby-horses to ride, and has not a single peculiar belief. No, she is rather odd among us.’
‘Are you certain you are a Carthew, Mama?’ Penelope asked.
‘By marriage only, my dear.’ Mrs Carthew smiled out over her brood with a look of charmed benevolence. No Carthew eccentricity was too great for the obvious adoration she felt for her family. Everyone at the table returned her smile, her affection, but then Henrietta noticed Mr Beacher looked not at Mrs Carthew but at her and with much the same expression.
Penelope, too, noted this and her own smile turned bitterly down.
Henrietta wanted nothing more at that moment than to dash from the room; conflicting emotions seemed about to overwhelm her. Instead she returned her attention to her meal, certain she could feel the worshipful gaze of Mr Beacher upon her – as though she did not have enough troubles. She resolved at that moment to speak to him that very evening and put an end to all his hopes. Cruel it might seem but far better Mr Beacher understood his situation so that he might consider his future in the light of knowledge rather than a future constructed of equal parts longing and fancy. It must be done, for Mr Beacher’s sake. Perhaps he might then regard Penelope’s devotion differently. And Pen could give up this resentment of her. Immediately, Henrietta felt better, although she did experience a slight tremor or quivering of the nerves at the thought of speaking so directly to Mr Beacher, but she was determined to overcome this. There was the matter of what to actually say … but she did trust that she would think of something before the evening was out.
‘Henrietta?’ Mr Carthew began, bringing her mind abruptly back from other matters. ‘How comes your novel?’
‘It does not, Father. All forward motion has ceased. The author has written herself into a corner and cannot find a way out.’
‘What is the difficulty, my dear?’
Henri sensed the same lecture so recently delivered to Anne, about to be recapitulated. ‘I do wish I knew.’
‘She cannot decide the outcome of her two characters,’ Elizabeth informed the gathering.
‘Ah, and why is that?’ Mr Carthew wondered.
‘It is all rather simple,’ Penelope offered. ‘The intellectual one should be thrown beneath a carriage while the tiresome one should marry an equally tiresome lord and live tediously ever after. The end. There is no other possibility.’
‘The question is more profound than that,’ Frank Beacher instructed the youngest sister. ‘Does knowledge make a person happy or is a certain degree of ignorance more conducive to contentment? Can one know what goes on in the larger world and still be happy? That is a serious question and not easily managed.’
‘And one must also ask the question,’ Elizabeth interjected, ‘if our contentment shrank in equal degree to each increase in knowledge would we choose to seek more knowledge or retreat from it? But what is the cost of ignorance? And what the cost of knowledge?’
‘What choice would each of us make, I wonder. Cassandra?’ Mr Carthew wondered aloud. ‘Happiness or knowledge?’
‘I am of the opinion that one might have both. But if that were not the case I would choose knowledge.’
‘Anne?’
‘Knowledge, no matter the cost.’
‘Mr Beacher?’
Frank glanced Henrietta’s way, a bit uncertainly. ‘If it were a choice between the two … I should choose knowledge by day and happiness by night.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Cassandra asked, sitting up and looking at him as though he jested.
‘I mean simply that at night all of our worries descend upon us and steal away our contentment. When one awakes in the wee hours, the world can seem a very threatening and loathsome place, so it would be best to choose happiness by night. By day, however, these concerns that so try us by night seem less disturbing so we might choose knowledge.’
‘If you can find a way to arrange things thus, Beacher,’ his friend observed, ‘I do hope you will instruct the rest of us.’
‘Indeed,’ Mr Carthew sniffed. ‘Pen, what of you, then?’
‘Contentment. Only a blockhead would choose to be unhappy.’
‘That is not the choice presented in my book,’ Henrietta objected. ‘It is much closer to Elizabeth’s interpretation; what is the cost of ignorance? What the cost of knowledge?’
‘Ignorance,’ Wilder informed them, ‘generally costs three shillings a hundredweight … except in the environs immediately surrounding Whitehall. Knowledge is four shillings. The economically minded commonly go for ignorance.’
Everyone laughed.
Rather too quickly dinner was over and the women all retired to the withdrawing room to partake of coffee and tea. No one in the family but Mrs Carthew did any manner of fancy work, so needles and hooks were not in evidence. That particular evening Penelope, who had been industriously scribbling away, proposed they compose a poem about Cassandra’s future travels, to which end she offered the first stanza.
‘Young Miss Carthew in her bonnet
Found a ship and stepped upon it
Undaunted by storm and gale
To captain said, “Oh do set the sail.”’
This met with everyone’s approval and soon all heads were bent over pieces of paper, quills in hand.
Cassandra, rather than taking offence at this teasing – or perhaps in self-defence – offered the next stanza.
‘Here we are,’ she said lifting her page and turning it to the light.
‘She waved to all her timid sisters
Who stayed ashore in hope that misters,
Wealthy lords and handsome swells,
Might dream of Carthew wedding bells.’
Verse after verse followed, to much laughter and teasing, but finally the poetic wells began to run dry. An end was needed and Pen, who had started it all, offered a stanza that seemed to demand an ending:
‘By and by she missed her home
Her sisters and her little roan.
She said goodbye to all she met
And so took ship and sailed for Kent.’
A final stanza, though, stymied everyone until Henrietta offered:
‘Then one day from out the west
Came a stranger in exotic dress
Swathed in jewels and foreign baubles
“I’m back,” she said, “I missed the squabbles.”’
A little round of applause – completely spontaneous – followed and Penelope set about writing it all out from memory.
‘What was it rhymed with “oasis”?’ she asked, bending over her page.
‘“Became the most common places”, or something like.’
Hearing the familiar footstep of her father passing by beyond the door Henrietta excused herself and went out, her heart suddenly all up in her chest and beating frantically.
As she expected, she found Frank Beacher still in the dining room. Hearing the door he turned and then looked suddenly embarrassed.
‘You have caught me smoking,’ he said, quickly extinguishing his smoke. ‘I know you said it was a foul habit.’
‘You have no need to conform your habits to my opinions,’ Henrietta answered. Though she had been composing a speech all through dinner it now seemed suddenly foolish and she had no idea what to say.
‘Were you looking for Mr Carthew?’ Frank asked, glancing at her, perhaps hoping she was looking for him, as unlikely as that might seem.
Henrietta could hardly speak, of a sudden. ‘No …’ she managed rather breathlessly. ‘Not at all. I had something I wanted to say to you, in truth.’
‘And what is it, pray?’ Frank said quickly, hope overspreading his face like light from the rising sun.
Henrietta felt her own face colour and the yearning that flickered in Frank’s eyes swept off all of her resolve.
‘I … I had been meaning to ask you about Father,’ she said, desperately grasping at anything to fill the silence. ‘Does he seem rather enervated to you? I confess, I am a bit concerned.’
‘Well, he is not as young as once he was but otherwise I should say he is remarkably vigorous given his years.’
‘Then you do not think his health suffers at all?’
Frank almost looked confused. ‘I … No, not in the least. His appetite is the same as it has always been. He walks several miles each morning – and at a pace to be envied, I might add. His reason and memory are prodigious, if one discounts the common, everyday things which he retains not at all – such as what hour we might dine, or any small thing he has promised Mrs Carthew he will attend to. No, Henrietta, I am certain your fears are groundless.’ He smiled.
‘I am relieved to hear it,’ Henrietta said while inwardly berating herself for a coward. ‘Then I shall return to my guest, Frank. Thank you for putting my mind at ease on this matter.’
‘Not at all,’ Frank replied, again appearing confused.
Henrietta retreated awkwardly, calling herself the worst names as she did so.
An hour later she and Elizabeth retreated to the library.
‘You spoke with Frank …’ Elizabeth began, arranging her skirts as she sat.
Henrietta finished lighting a candle, and all but threw herself down upon a sofa. ‘I spoke to him,’ she admitted, ‘but I could not say what I meant to and instead enquired after my father’s health. I believe Frank thought the entire conversation … rather peculiar.’
‘Oh dear.’ Elizabeth looked genuinely distressed.
‘I could not bear to cause him pain,’ Henrietta said, sensing the next question. ‘He looked at me with such hope in his eyes and … I could not say a word that might injure him. I am such a coward!’
‘Do not berate yourself so, Henrietta. It is no easy thing to dash the hopes of another, especially if you care for them at all. Frank is such a good, kind person. I can see why you would not wish to injure him.’ She looked pointedly at her cousin. ‘You are certain that was the reason, are you not, Henri?’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Henrietta asked sharply. ‘You cannot think that I am nurturing some secret flame for Frank Beacher, can you?’ And then, ‘You do don’t you?’
‘It is one possible explanation for why you could not dash his hopes. I have known such cases before where one’s true feelings were never comprehended until such time as the object of this unrecognized affection was about to leave for some distant place or became attached to another. And then, too late—’
‘Well, that is not the case with me,’ Henrietta interrupted. ‘Indeed, I do have an attachment to Frank Beacher – after all, I have known him most of my life and he is, as you have said, good and kind. But my affection is that of a sister for a brother. No more. If Frank’s feelings for me are not of a similar variety … well, I have never encouraged him to hold such hopes. I am just too cowardly and soft-hearted to injure him, that is all. Having been so recently injured myself, I know how painful such matters can be and have no wish to inflict this upon another, especially anyone so undeserving of pain as Frank Beacher.’
‘I have one last thing to say on this matter, Henri, and then I shall speak no more. Be certain of your own heart. Frank Beacher is a handsome man of good family and prospects, intelligent and amiable. Some young woman will attach his affections one day and then you might discover that your feelings were of a completely different nature to how you always supposed. But it will be too late.’
‘When such a day comes I shall be overjoyed for Mr Beacher and not have the least regret … well, perhaps I might harbour the smallest of small regrets but then that is human, is it not?’
‘I suppose it is,’ Elizabeth replied, looked frightfully thoughtful a moment, and then spoke again, ‘I was happy to see your mood improved materially by our abysmal poetry.’
Henrietta gave a little laugh. ‘Yes, there is nothing quite so healing to the soul as poetry, ill conceived and badly composed. Unfortunately, the curative powers of this physic are short-lived. Melancholy is greater even than rhymes as dubious as “pachyderm” and “parasol held firm”.’
‘Yes, it is a dark and tireless gravity that draws one down. I feel it when Captain Hertle is away upon his ship in who knows what dangers. One must never let one’s imagination take charge or one is lost to all manner of horrors.’
‘A vivid imagination is not always the gift it is so often claimed.’
The two fell silent, and Henrietta took her friend’s hands in hers. She had been so possessed by her own troubles that she had failed to even notice that Elizabeth was weighed down with worries of her own.
‘Do not let anxiety overcome your natural gift for happiness, my dear. As we both know worry accomplishes nothing but vexation, even torment, to the worrier.’
‘Yes,’ Elizabeth said sadly, ‘but it is so difficult to draw back from this particular abyss. Always the mind wants to step near and peer down into the darkness.’ A tear escaped the corner of one eye and streaked down her lovely cheek. Without thinking, Henrietta dabbed it away with her hanky.
Elizabeth drew back and looked at her. ‘Your hanky is sodden!’ she said.
Henrietta laughed – she could not help it. ‘I am afraid it is.’
Elizabeth produced her own, limp with moisture.
‘We could wring them out and have water enough for a bath,’ Henrietta said and they both laughed.
‘Are not we a pair?’ Elizabeth managed.
‘If I am ever, even in the slightest degree, interested in a Navy man again you must shake me, Lizzie, until I come to my senses. I am not made for constant worry.’
‘Nor am I, yet I have no choice in the matter.’
‘Nor had I,’ Henrietta said sadly and fought back tears yet again.
‘What time more advantageous might there be than the present?’ Henry Wilder asked.
Frank Beacher and his friend sat among Mr Carthew’s collection, spread over tables and shelves and upon the floor all around. It looked as though the ‘collection’ had been housed here by the simple expedient of opening the door and tossing in whatever had most recently been acquired without the least care for where it might land. Insects pinned to boards leaned against tables piled with preserving jars containing foetuses. Bones and fossils were scattered here and there in a jumble, making the construction of a complete skeleton – even if all the parts were present – a near impossibility. A stuffed wolverine snarled down upon the two men from a high shelf, and tusks of elephants and narwhals leaned precariously against a wall.
‘Poor Henrietta has just had her heart broken and is distressed to near distraction. I do not think a proposal from me would be looked upon in the best possible light under the circumstances.’
‘I am not suggesting you ask for her hand, Beacher. I am merely suggesting that you confess your profound feelings for her. You did let her slip away once before – out of timidity, I might add – do not let this second chance pass by. You may never get another.’
‘It does not seem … proper, somehow, given her recent disappointment—’
‘Oh, hang what is proper! We are talking about your happiness.’ Wilder fixed his friend with a look of complete exasperation. ‘And the happiness of Miss Henrietta as well, if I might be so bold as to say it, for I believe you will make her happy. How can you not when you have been her most devoted lover all of your days?’ Wilder displayed a dead beetle in the palm of his hand. ‘Look at the colour of this buprestid! Have you ever seen its like?’
Beacher shook his head distractedly. ‘But—’
‘You are afraid that she will rebuff you,’ Wilder interrupted firmly. ‘Admit it. It is completely understandable, Beacher. You would rather have some hope, no matter how slim, than know there was no reason to hope at all. But I believe some other man, less fearful of rejection, will win her while you dither. Simply inform her of your great regard for her and of your true feelings. You might even say she need not reply but that you simply could keep this secret no longer. She will go away and contemplate what you have said. Certainly she knows all of your fine qualities – who could know them better? She might find that her attachment to you is greater than she realized. And if she does not … well, Miss Penelope is your most devoted admirer and is by far the most handsome of the Carthew sisters, and that is saying a great deal for they are none of them plain. She is also lively and charming and although not your intellectual equal at this time I believe that could change, for she will become less girlish and more serious in a few short years. After all, Miss Henrietta is but four and twenty so Miss Penelope has at least seven years to devote to improving her mind.’
‘Henri has always been of serious disposition and studious to the point of being scholarly. Pen will never be her equal in this for, as you say, she is of completely different temperament.’
‘A lively, charming wife would not be the worst thing in the world, Beacher.’
‘No, it would not, but such would never suit me.’
‘Yes, you would not want a woman to carry you away from your beetles and off to a ball. How horrible!’
‘I am perfectly happy to attend a ball, now and again, as you well know, but my interests are …’
‘More weighty, yes, so you have told me … more times than I care to remember.’
‘Perhaps Pen would make you a wife, Wilder. As you say, she does not lack beauty.’
‘She is too besotted by your charms to consider another. Besides, if I were to lose my heart to a Carthew it would be Miss Cassandra. She is the only one who piques my interest.’
‘Sandra? Are you serious?’
‘Indeed, I am.’
‘You have always had a partiality for girls with yellow hair and blue eyes, I suppose.’
‘It is a little more than that, I think. Sandra, as you call her, is not about to make a nest. She is a little more adventurous, which would suit me to perfection, do not you think?’
This made Frank Beacher smile. ‘Oh, so that is it. You see yourself sailing off to distant lands with your wife by your side, collecting in the South Pacific Isles or Borneo, perhaps. Most men would not subject their wives to such discomfort, not to mention the perceivable dangers. But then we are allowed any type of marriage in our fancies, are we not? Have you expressed these thoughts to Miss Cassandra, pray? Or are you simply prone to suggesting boldness to your friends but do not follow such advice yourself?’
‘I have only but met Miss Cassandra; you have been in love with your lovely Henri since you were weaned. I will say, if I were to decide Miss Cassandra was the woman I wished to marry I would speak – while you would still be debating if such a course were “proper”.’
‘So you say, Mr Wilder, but we will see if you are as good as your word.’
‘I will wager that I will express my feelings for Miss Cassandra before you have done so to your dear Henri, upon the condition, of course, that I grow such feelings.’
‘I do not think such wagers proper.’
Wilder laughed, and after a moment so did Beacher – at himself.
‘Well, then let me propose something even you cannot protest is improper. Let us ask the Misses Cassandra and Henrietta to take the air with us on the morrow.’ He thought a moment. ‘I suppose we shall have to invite Mrs Hertle, as well, as she is visiting Miss Henrietta.’
‘She will make the perfect chaperon. I will pass along our invitation first thing in the morning.’ Beacher looked pleased a moment but then his gaze became distant and a look of confusion settled over his features.
‘What is it, Beacher? Have you thought of some reason for this to be improper?’
‘Not at all. I had the most peculiar encounter with Henrietta, just after dinner. She found me alone in the dining room; indeed, I believe she knew there was no other present. She said she had something to say to me and looked terribly nervous but then, just as she was about to speak, I swear she lost her nerve and rather than saying whatever it was she first intended, she instead enquired after her father’s health even though his well-being and vigour are constantly remarked upon by all of his daughters.’ He shook his head.
‘What do you imagine Henrietta meant to say?’
‘I truly do not know. I … Well, I cannot say.’
‘I will tell you one thing, Beacher, do not for a moment imagine that she was suddenly going to confess her feelings for you. Even were she mad for you Miss Henrietta Carthew would never … never speak first. It is out of the question.’
‘Of course you are right. But I do wonder what she intended.’
‘You must ask her.’
‘And how would one do that, pray?’
‘It is not so impossible as you seem to think. Were I you, and thank God I am not, I would simply say, “My dear Henri, last night, when we spoke of your father’s health, I imagined that you had intended to say something other. Is that true, and if so what was it you wished to say to me?”’
‘I might make her feel most uncomfortable!’
‘She is a woman in the bloom of youth, Beacher, such discomfort will not be fatal, I am quite certain.’ He threw up his hands. ‘I do not know why I even take the time to speak to you on such matters. Would not you be better off knowing that Miss Henrietta does not share your feelings?’
‘You do not understand, Wilder. Young women have very romantic notions of love and marriage. They are all of them waiting for some handsome stranger to come along and sweep them away, like a leaf falling into a fast-flowing river, the current irresistible. The idea of love with someone as familiar as I am to Henrietta is simply not romantic. But falling in love with a stranger leads to the kind of heartache Henri is feeling now – all because she believed she was in love with this Navy man who cannot even make his post and was clearly a bounder from the very beginning! I should like to meet the man and demand satisfaction for what he has done!’
‘Have you ever been in a duel, Beacher?’
‘You know I have not.’
‘Then I should not be in a hurry to walk out with a man who has been in many an action and has actually aimed a pistol at a man’s heart before and knows whether he is capable of firing or no.’
‘Well, I did not actually mean I would challenge the blackguard.’ He looked very sad suddenly. ‘It takes some time for women to grow beyond this idea of the handsome stranger and realize that love can flourish with the familiar. Henrietta and I are perfectly suited to one another, always content in each other’s company, never a moment of awkwardness or searching about for something of which we might speak. We find amusement in the same things, enjoy the same books and make almost identical observations about the people around us. These things will outlast the foolish romantic notions common to young women.’
‘Did you not tell me that Miss Henrietta’s aunt expressed this exact same opinion?’
‘Well, perhaps not exact.’
‘So you are of one mind with a ninety-year-old dowager on the matter of romance?’ He raised an eyebrow but Beacher did not know how to answer this. ‘Unfortunately you are not courting Henrietta’s ageing aunt, you seem to have much in common.’
‘You do see my problem, Wilder, do you not? I am too familiar, to Henri. But I believe she will feel differently about this in time. Once she has recovered from her recent disappointment she might very well see how foolish her ideas were.’
‘All the more reason for you to confess your own feelings. Then she may weigh up the handsome rogue against the faithful confidant and decide where to entrust her heart. But if you do not speak she might never suspect that your feelings are anything but brotherly. Only the brave deserve the fair.’
‘“None but the brave …”’
‘Sorry … ?’
‘“None but the brave deserve the fair.” Dryden.’
‘Was it Dryden? I thought it was Shakespeare.’
‘Perhaps. Everyone seems to have said it at one time or another. I think the Lord said it to Adam.’
‘Well there you have it. If the Lord said it to Adam and Shakespeare said it, or very likely so, it is undeniable – perhaps even Gospel – truth. Miss Henrietta is fair so you must be brave. If it were the other way round – you were fair, then she would have to be brave – but I can assure you, Beacher, you are not fair, therefore the part of being brave falls upon you.’
‘Thank you, Wilder. It is the kindest thing you have ever said about me.’
‘You are most welcome. Did I also say that you are timid, shy, fainthearted and without a spine? No? Well, so you are. If you cannot work up your courage to tell Miss Henrietta Carthew how you feel then she will most likely marry some handsome stranger and live unhappily ever after. And it will be your fault, too.’
Beacher stood and paced across the room, lighting a pipe from a candle. ‘Any such declaration I might make must be timed to perfection. Too soon and she will rebuff my suit because she is still awaiting her handsome stranger, too late and … well, it will be too late, clearly. But how to know when the exact moment has arrived … ?’
‘Aye, there’s the rub.’
‘Shakespeare.’
‘Not God?’