‘You burned it … before reading it?’ Henrietta gazed at her cousin, Elizabeth Hertle, who made a small shrugging motion and opened her hands, which rested in her lap.
Elizabeth had admitted to having burned a letter received by her from Charles Hayden before she had set out from London.
‘What could Mr Hayden possibly write that would change my opinion of him? That he did not mean to cause you pain? That he was overcome with remorse and guilt? – though not enough, apparently, to have him act honourably. No, there was not a single thing he could say that I was willing to hear. Mr Hayden is not welcome in my home; nor are his badly contrived excuses. He is a rogue and I do not suffer rogues … nor do I apologize for it.’
Henrietta noted that Elizabeth was no longer using ‘Charles’ which formerly she had when she was speaking of him with affection, or even ‘Captain Hayden’, which she commonly had to express her high regard. It was now ‘Mr Hayden’ or even ‘that man’.
‘I should not like to earn your bad opinion, cousin.’
‘I am quite certain you never shall, Henri. Never could you act dishonourably – it is not in your nature.’
A soft knock on the door curtailed Henrietta’s answer and this was followed by the appearance of Frank Beacher, a hat in hand and dressed for the outdoors.
‘It would seem I have not arrived at the best possible moment. Shall I return later?’
Henrietta stood. ‘That will not be necessary; I am quite ready to take the air.’
‘Would you care to join us, Mrs Hertle?’ Beacher asked.
‘Very kind of you to enquire, Mr Beacher, but I have promised Penelope that I would visit with her. Enjoy your walk, my dears,’ she said and smiled upon the two benevolently.
Penelope, Elizabeth noted, looked more like her mother. The sisters Carthew were either slightly round faced, with beautiful complexions, blue eyes and corn-silk yellow hair or they were oval-faced and dark-haired with eyes almost difficult to describe for they could be either brown, flecked with amber or, in the right light, deeply green. They were all of them lovely, she thought. All themselves. Henri was the most dutiful and possessed the purest intellect while Anne had the most independent mind or perhaps ‘spirit’. Unlike Henri, she chaffed at all the bonds of family and even of her sex. Not that she did not adore the Carthew clan – Elizabeth was quite certain she did – but the expectations of family she had little time for. More than anything, Anne wished to make her own life on her own terms.
Penelope was clay not yet formed. She had aspects of all her sisters – but these things she was merely trying on, Elizabeth thought, like dresses to see if they might fit. Being the youngest, she dwelt in the shade cast by her accomplished sisters, and struggled mightily even to be noticed. But she was, Elizabeth could not help but see, growing into the most beautiful of the Carthews, and notice was being taken of this – by a good number of young men. And like all girls her age, this notice did not escape her. She rather enjoyed it, in truth. But her heart belonged to only one young man – and he, as these things often went, was mad for another: Henrietta.
Pen might have been young but she was no more a fool than anyone in her family and she was busy remaking herself to win the regard of Frank Beacher. She was not fashioning herself into a little Henrietta – she was too bright for that, and by temperament too dissimilar – but she was becoming more serious of mind, more gracious rather than girlish. She worked to acquire wit and charm – and where better to learn these traits than in a household where they flourished.
Despite these newly serious aims, she knelt upon a rug on the floor and played with a puppy, displaying all of the abandon of a girl one third her age. She even giggled.
In the manner of all puppies, he suddenly jumped up and wandered clumsily off, sniffing along the floor, his soft, yellowish coat all but aglow in the firelight.
Pen watched him a moment and then said, ‘Do you know what all the whispering is about, Lizzie?’
‘Whispering?’
‘Yes. I have come upon Cassandra and Anne whispering together and immediately they saw me they went silent and looked as though they had been caught engaged in some enterprise that was terribly forbidden.’
‘Well, if they have some secret, they have not seen fit to include me. Might it have something to do with the two handsome young men dwelling beneath this roof?’
‘So one would assume.’ She considered a moment. ‘They never include me in their secrets.’ This she said with the smallest indication of petulance – a little slip in the new persona she was crafting. She made that peculiar noise with tongue and teeth that people did when they called to animals, and the puppy came dutifully lumbering back to throw himself half in her lap, then rolled over to be patted. As casually as she could Pen asked, ‘Do you think that Henri has … had a change of heart towards Frank Beacher?’
‘I suppose it is possible. He is very amiable, is he not? Possessed of an excellent mind and temperament. There is much to recommend him.’
‘Oh, yes … a very great deal,’ Penelope gushed. She stopped petting her little charge. ‘He is rather mad for her, is he not?’
Elizabeth did not want to injure her young cousin, but she wondered if the truth might not prepare her a little for what Elizabeth was beginning to think was inevitable. ‘It would seem that he is, Pen.’
Nothing was said for a moment, though Pen’s face darkened noticeably, and a veil of unhappiness appeared to spread over her as she absorbed this.
‘Too bad about the Navy man …’ she said after a moment. ‘Everyone was of the opinion that they would marry, though no one approved, of course.’
‘No one approved?’
‘No, everyone thought it a poor match. Henri is not so strong as you, Lizzie; if her husband were at sea and in danger most of each year she should pine away and most likely grow ill. Or so everyone said, but I thought – if he made her happy – well, she would learn to live with his absences.’
‘They are difficult,’ Elizabeth almost whispered.
‘But he turned out to be a bounder, sadly.’ Pen glanced up. ‘Sorry, Lizzie, what did you say?’
Elizabeth shook her head and waved a hand as though to say, ‘Nothing at all’, though she felt suddenly like weeping.
Pen began to gently scratch the pup behind the ears and he closed his eyes as though transported. ‘I do not really believe Henri has feelings for Frank – except of the fraternal variety, of course. She is just confused and heartbroken and sees Frank as the devoted friend and someone who would never cause her pain or behave dishonourably. She has been knocked over by her captain’s betrayal and Frank has caught her. That is all. I do hope one of them sees this before it is too late.’ She glanced up at her cousin. ‘Do you not agree?’
‘I … I am not so sure. Aunt Hertle is of the opinion that it is better to discover yourself in love with someone with whom you have had an acquaintance of some years than some stranger who sweeps in and snatches away your heart. Henri and Frank have known each other almost all their lives.’
‘Perhaps, when one is as old as Lady Hertle, such an opinion seems sensical. I am in agreement with the sentiment Henri expressed at our picnic recently – our hearts make choices our minds might not approve. “Choosing” to fall in love with someone, or not to fall in love with them … well, that is not love at all. That is merely “selecting” as one might a gown or jewellery or a carriage.’
‘You are romantic, Pen.’
‘I am!’ she said a bit curtly. ‘And I am not ashamed of it.’
‘Good for you.’
A silence which extended beyond ten minutes ensued and then, without looking up from slowly petting her dog, who was now asleep and breathing softly, Pen said, ‘Mr Wilder has been paying much attention to Cassandra, has he not?’
‘I suppose he has,’ Elizabeth answered, thankful to have the subject changed. ‘What do you think of him, Penelope? I cannot claim to know him at all.’
‘Nor I, really. Frank likes him overly and father is developing a very high opinion of him.’
‘I sense that you do not share this, entirely?’
‘Certainly, I have not formed a poor opinion of him …’ She stopped here to reflect, a look of mild confusion creasing her brow.
‘But you are not certain?’ prompted Elizabeth.
‘I suppose I feel I must know him better. Then perhaps he shall gain my greatest approbation … or so I hope.’ She tried to smooth the pup’s curly hair, though it sprang back at each attempt. ‘Is it not peculiar how some people we feel immediate affection for – as though we have known them for years when it can sometimes be only a few hours. And others we never feel that for, even when they give us no reason to think or feel otherwise.’
‘Do you think that Mr Wilder is of this latter category?’
‘I cannot say. Certainly he is not of the former. And I do not mean to suggest that I mislike him or have any reason to feel other than kindly towards him. He has been a perfect gentleman – is very pleasant company at table. Mr Beacher and he can be very ironical when together. My, they have made me laugh!’
‘Mr Wilder seems … to lack a certain seriousness. He still dreams that he will sail off to some distant land and make discoveries and win great fame and reward.’
‘He and Cassandra are of one mind in this … of course people do sail off and make discoveries and gain the regard of the great and learned. Father’s elephant tusks did not come from Sussex, after all.’
‘People do, but I suspect the hardships are much greater than either Sandra or Mr Wilder comprehend. I believe these people who go off to distant places are of a different breed to most of us. We think some small inconvenience a hardship – when we are shut up in the house by rain for more than three days together. They must walk miles in mud and heat being devoured by insects, always wary of snakes and wild animals. The most alarming illnesses descend upon them and they are without the comforts of civilization for months – sometimes years – on end. Do you really think that Cassandra would delight in such a situation? Would Mr Wilder?’
‘I should wager my money on Cassandra before Mr Wilder, to be sure.’
They both laughed at this.
‘Do not breathe a word to Mr Wilder, but I do agree. Therefore he is not suited to her. He would be back in London inside of a month – classifying her collection.’
‘For our Cassandra,’ Penelope observed, ‘we require someone wilder.’
‘My dear, you have stooped very low for that terrible pun.’
‘One must always stoop low for puns – they are of no value otherwise.’
‘Hmm.’ Neither spoke a word for a moment.
Then, to break the silence, Elizabeth said, ‘Perhaps I should have a tête-à-tête with Anne or Cassandra and endeavour to discover the cause of all this “whispering”.’
‘Ask if it has anything at all to do with a letter. I thought I heard them whisper “letter” but could not be certain.’
‘I shall certainly bring up the subject of letters. Has one of them received a letter recently?’
‘Several. They are both great letter writers as you well know. Which letter they might be referring to I cannot say.’
Anne and Cassandra had to be gathered together, since they were commonly involved in wholly different endeavours, as their very distinct personalities dictated. The former had been diligently at work upon her newest pursuit – a novel – and the latter only just returned from riding with Mr Wilder and Mr Carthew. They were soon herded into the library, where a fire was kindled, and they sat near the hearth, each a picture of good health and surprising contentment, given their relative youth.
The truth was that Elizabeth was not very much concerned about Anne and Sandra’s secrets or even a letter. She was much more concerned with the fragility of poor Pen’s heart at that moment, as the man she adored clearly courted her older sister. Being excluded by her siblings, though a common enough occurrence, was only lowering her mood even more. Elizabeth’s sole intent was to appeal for greater understanding of their poor sister, who was having her heart broken for the first time. She hoped to remind them of their own first heartbreak.
To begin, Elizabeth heard about their days, which were filled with activity both physical and mental. She then slowly worked around to the real purpose of this gathering.
‘Penelope and I had a lovely visit this morning … and I must tell you she is very distressed that Mr Beacher is showing so much preference for Henrietta. You both know Pen’s feeling for Mr Beacher?’
They both did and said so, though neither seemed to take her point. Clearly they thought Pen’s devotion to Frank Beacher merely a childish attachment that she should grow out of and the sooner the better.
‘Pen is not a child any longer,’ Elizabeth insisted, ‘and has grown a woman’s heart – not unlike your own. Perhaps you have not had the misfortune of having your heart broken but I can assure you it is an affliction as severe as the worst fever. I do think we should make an effort to be a little solicitous and kind to poor Penelope as she finds her way through this. A woman’s heart she may have but it is a young woman’s heart and not yet proof against the pains and disappointments she will encounter.’
Cassandra and Anne looked suitably chastized and prepared to treat their sister as an emotional invalid for the time being.
‘She especially dislikes being excluded from your confidence and said you have been whispering about something or other of late …’
Elizabeth was not prepared for the reaction to this. She had known these young women all their lives, and was very familiar with their range of expression. They both coloured noticeably and glanced at each other in something like panic.
In less than a moment they both had excused themselves on some thin pretext and near fled the room. Lizzie was left alone in both confusion and alarm.
‘What in the world are these girls up to?’ she wondered.
Clearly this letter – assuming it was a letter – had somewhat to do with Pen, or her sisters would not have kept her in the dark. Whatever could it be? she wondered.
The door opened at that instant and Henrietta came quickly in, her cheeks all aglow from the fresh air and spring sun.
‘Why Henri, you are positively glowing with youth and health. What young man would not have his head turned were he to see you now?’
From the look on Henrietta’s face you would have thought there were no words that could cause her greater distress.
‘Frank Beacher has just asked for my hand,’ Henri announced, threw herself down on a chair, covered her face and began to silently weep.
It took many a moment for Henrietta to master herself, with several setbacks along the path. Tears were wiped away, began to flow afresh, were erased, returned and were stoppered more or less, though Elizabeth did not doubt that they lurked very near the surface. In truth they pooled and glistened at the edges of Henrietta’s eyes, threatening always to spill over.
Perhaps the most alarming aspect of this display of feeling – to the perception of Elizabeth – was it did not seem an outpouring of overwrought emotion or overwhelming joy. Henrietta was genuinely distressed … and Elizabeth had been promoting this attachment, had almost been acting as matchmaker, and yet now that Frank Beacher had finally spoken, Henrietta seemed disconsolate. It was not at all what she had hoped for or ever expected.
‘Henri, Henri,’ she said softly, almost cooing. ‘What is wrong, my darling? You are under no obligation to marry Frank Beacher, and if you do decline I dare say he is young and hearty – he will survive.’
‘I cannot tell you why I have responded …’ For a moment she appeared to be at a loss and then she merely gestured to herself: ‘… in this manner. I really cannot. I am just …’ But she could not finish for tears began to flow again and did for several more minutes. ‘I am just so … unhappy. I can hardly bear it, Lizzie … And I do not know why.’
The two cousins sat upon the sofa, one overcome by sorrow and the other feeling alternately confusion then consternation and embarrassment that she had promoted this match. Clearly she should have listened to her own words when she spoke against interfering busybodies pushing young people together. It was one thing to ignore the advice of well-meaning friends and relations, but to utterly ignore your own, hard-won wisdom was simply folly … and she did not like to feel foolish.