“What possessed you into thinking that you’re meant to be a schoolmaster?” Mama asked over dinner that evening. “Who planted those absurd ideas in your head?” She then turned to Papa. “Frederick? Do you know anything about this?”
Papa shook his head, looking equally perplexed.
“Come now, Cecily. Whatever choices Nathaniel makes, he does on his own. It’s all we can do to advise him, not bully him down one path or another.”
“You spoke with the boy, though, before he left.”
“I did, yes. I offered him something my father never gave me: a choice.”
“But, surely, we ought to encourage him to aim higher than this!” Mama turned back to me with a look of clear dismay. “Oh, Natty. You really need to consider things more carefully. Why else do you think I sought out my brother, with no assurance he’d take me back? It wasn’t for my sake I risked more rejection from the only other family that’s left to me. It was all for you, you ridiculous boy. Think of the connections your uncle has—the advantages his position can give you.”
I watched Papa, not Mama, the entire time.
He ate his meal as he always did, with careful precision and a solemn air—or so it appeared to me at first. The longer I watched him, however, the more I noticed the way his hands trembled slightly whenever he used his knife and fork. He held his glass with both hands as well as though to steady it while he drank its contents. Little by little, I began to sense distress in him—the strong man of God, who always kept me in awe with his mere presence.
“What happened while I was gone?” I asked.
“Natty,” Mama began, “your father and I sat down with your uncle while you were away, and we’ve all decided—”
“Indeed,” Papa muttered behind his glass.
“—that you’re to be properly taught—”
“As if I never taught my own son enough.”
Mama glanced at him, blushing. “Frederick, please. Everything’s been settled, and we’ve agreed on the terms according to your demands.” She hesitated. “Might I remind you, my dear, that I’ve already stopped my visits to my brother? I promised you, did I not, in return for this?”
Papa took a deep breath and ran a tired hand across his brows. “Your visits to Havenstreet were interfering with your duties around here. The balls—the dinner-parties—the people your brother surrounds himself with—I wouldn’t have asked you to stop them, otherwise.”
I stared at him, bewildered. There was something in the tone of his voice that didn’t convince me of his purpose, but I shook off the doubts. It was difficult reading him when he was unusually emotional like this.
Mama, for her part, looked pained. Papa’s words stung her, and the resentment that rippled out of her could be felt from where I sat between them. “I’m not arguing against your prohibitions, Frederick,” she said with forced calm. “Now, please. We’ve made a bargain, and I expect you to keep your end.”
“I will not have my son brought up by that man!” Papa exclaimed, pounding a fist against the table and rattling all the dishes. “What agreement we made among ourselves was forced on me, Cecily, and you know that too well!”
I sat, frozen in shock. Never had I heard my father raise his voice to my mother like this. Arguments between them in the past were always quiet and fairly civil.
“Your son isn’t about to be taken away from you, Frederick. Please be reasonable. What would you have Nathaniel do? Be another man of God, completely dependent on someone’s patronage with very little else to his name? You’re unhappy where you are now! Do you wish the same for your only son?”
I stared in horror at Papa. How had that come about? I’d never heard a word of complaint from him for as long as I could remember. He seemed devoted enough to his profession, and he dispensed his duties around the parish with consistent energy. When he spoke of the sick, the newly deceased, or the newly wed among his parishioners, he’d always done so without a hint of resentment or malice in his tone. Even when he criticized those whom he considered to be beyond his reach, he’d always done so with dry levity in his manner—as though he were left with nothing but good humor in the face of hopeless sinning.
Papa finished his drink and pushed his chair back, nearly upsetting it in his agitation. His face was deeply flushed. Even in the soft glow of candlelight, I could see every line and every shadow that marked his face. He seemed to age before me.
“Nathaniel,” Papa said in a quiet yet tremulous voice, “your uncle has generously offered to—help us—with your education. The university was his idea—as was it your mother’s.” He glanced at Mama when he spoke, but I could read nothing in his gaze. He blinked and looked back at me, and the tired resignation was once again there. “I accepted on the condition that the choice of school—and profession—would lie completely on your shoulders and no one else’s.”
“It’s a very generous offer, Nathaniel,” Mama said, her voice much quieter now and no less sad than Papa’s. “Your father can only afford so much, as you know. We might not be poor, but you grew up in a far more modest situation than your cousins, and you’ve done extremely well. Now you’re offered a chance to rise above this—”
“Without the curse of idleness that’s a gentleman’s birthright,” Papa cut in with some emphasis.
Mama nodded and held my gaze. “If you rise above your situation, Natty, it’s because of hard work, and you’ve always proven yourself to be a good, dutiful boy. Your uncle’s connections will help you reach your goals far more easily than ours ever can. We’re sure of it.” It was now her turn to appear as though she were withering in front of me. “Think of it—what if something were to happen to either of us? Perhaps even both, God forbid? What’s left for my poor boy?”
I finally looked down at my half-eaten food, my appetite now gone. “Am I expected to live with my cousins? I’d rather not.”
“It’s your choice—yours alone,” Papa replied, again with emphasis. “Neither of us will force you to go down a road that doesn’t suit you, regarding your future profession. If you wish to be reassured, however, no—the subject of living with your cousins was never discussed. Then again, Natty, I wouldn’t have allowed it.”
“However, your father and I would be—much obliged—if you were to take up your uncle’s offer for assistance,” Mama added. She spoke slowly as though choosing her words with great care. “You can see how difficult it is for your father to take, but he understands the necessity, and opportunities like this don’t happen along every day.”
I moved my gaze from one parent to another. I was shocked, to be sure, though perhaps I shouldn’t have been, given my uncle’s earlier display of generosity. I was grateful, yes, but I was mostly grieving for Papa as I watched him walk out of the dining room, his figure bent under a weight I couldn’t see. I could only imagine the conversation between him, Mama, and my aunt and uncle to be a painful one. His pride—indeed, what was left of it—was quite likely pounded to dust in the presence of the man who’d long despised him for taking Mama away. I couldn’t hold myself back any longer.
“You’re killing him!” I cried, turning to my mother. “You and my uncle!”
“Do you want to be miserable like your father?” she asked, her tone matching mine. “What I—we—chose to do, Nathaniel, we’ve done so for your sake, not ours, and your father understands it. Regardless of your consent or our private opinions, your future happiness is what drives us to humble ourselves like this before your uncle. I won’t have my son pay us back with impertinence!”
“Why do you insist on saying that Papa’s miserable?”
She hesitated, averting her gaze and taking a calming sip of her drink. “Your father never wished to be in the church, Natty,” she presently said in a softer voice. “He’d set his heart on America, where he’d hoped to work his way to great wealth. But his family exerted their influence on him, and he agreed. He called himself a coward when he spoke of it—told me all this once and no more. He’s too bitter—regrets too much—though he never shows it.”
“Does he regret you—or me?” I asked, feeling a little sickened by the thought.
“No, he doesn’t,” she quickly replied with an earnest and intense look in my direction. “Don’t ever think that. Your father loves us both, be assured. I ask you, though, never to mention this to him. I’m telling you this once, and that’s all. He’s determined to look forward, not back, but sometimes he simply can’t run away from his past, and I want you to understand why he reacts the way he does to—to your uncle. Wealth and control are like poison to him, Natty.”
I nodded. “I swear I won’t mention anything to him.”
I learned so much about my father that evening, all of it a great surprise. Mama claimed Papa’s history had been kept from me for good reason—my youth, which he was determined not to taint with knowledge of his past failings—and now was the right moment for revelations.
His family was a distant branch of a great, ancient line, and they owned a living—a small, humble one in the Isle of Wight, from where they originally came. They were eager to give it to the youngest son, preferring to see him on English soil. My grandparents decided to move off the island once the living was filled. They claimed the isolation depressed their spirits enough to affect their health, which was, I suppose, somewhat true. I now understand my grandmother was especially delicate and prone to all kinds of respiratory and gastric distresses.
So they moved, the property—already quite run-down from years of aristocratic pauperism—sold to a gentleman of no consequence but plenty of money, who, in turn, leased it to anyone who could afford it. The heir to the property, my father’s older brother, cared nothing for it. He’d exerted his influence on his parents successfully enough to be able to escape to London, where he was determined to remain for the rest of his life. So they all moved away, and they left Papa behind. Any references to them in conversation were limited to a quick and vague word or two and nothing more when I was much younger. I remembered not being encouraged at all to inquire after them.
As a child, I didn’t care much about the mystery of Papa’s past. I was far too content with my situation to bother. At seventeen, I finally understood the reasons for my parents’ silence. Papa had completely cut his family off without regrets. Till today, I truly don’t know what had become of my paternal grandparents and my uncle. Perhaps things are better this way.
To what extent Papa’s disappointments had shaped his overbearing protectiveness toward me could only be guessed. By the time Mama ended her narrative, my spirits were no longer depressed—only defiant on my parents’ behalf. Papa was abandoned. Mama, disinherited. He remained cut off. She had to humble herself and beg forgiveness from her brother for my sake. For a brief, shining moment, I took pride in being the child of outcasts, and a boy’s wild, untested idealism buoyed me.
Silence pervaded for what felt like an eternity. Mama remained at the table with me while I thought things over.
I could be anything I wanted—a barrister, a banker, perhaps even a statesman if I were to aim for loftier goals.
My uncle had opened his purse-strings and offered me the world, one in which a religious calling seemed to have no place. Papa might have been offended and hurt by Mama’s earlier bluntness, but I knew that what she said was the truth despite its ugliness.
I took a deep breath and looked up to find Mama still watching me closely, her features a pale mask. “I’d very much like to go to a teaching college,” I said, taking note of the gradual melting of ice before me, the look of melancholy hope giving way to one of horror. “I do believe I’m capable of being a very good schoolmaster someday. However, I’ll keep my choices open if it pleases you.”
There are no words, even now, to describe the general dismay that met my declaration. For several days afterward, Mama argued and pled incessantly with me, and Papa shook his head and visibly checked himself.
Their dreams were much higher than mine. Even Papa, despite his promises never to hold me back as his own father did him, was confused by my resolution though he might appear to deny it.
“I’d expected something more,” he once muttered. I was sure he didn’t intend me to hear, but I did.
“We’ll talk about this on another day,” Mama promised every time, her voice firm. “For now, I want you to think—really think—of where you’re headed with this—this ridiculous scheme of yours, Natty.”
I weathered the storm by turning to my books, especially those which my uncle gave me. When I could, I ventured out to see my friends and help Papa dispense his Christian duties, visiting poorer neighbors and offering them comfort and assistance. When I crossed their worn thresholds, my resolution strengthened. The sight of the children—poorly dressed, thin, pale, already deprived of so much even before they reached their fifth year—ate steadily into me, and at night, when I was supposed to be asleep, I’d be reading and writing in my journal. I was one of the fortunate ones, I kept reminding myself. What was the point of all the glamour of the more prestigious professions, when they didn’t directly benefit the poorest in England?
No. I believed myself at a great advantage, being the son of a vicar. I’d seen the best and the worst in the parish, at my uncle’s estate, and on Exmoor. I was convinced my eyes had been opened in better ways than my peers could say about their own experiences. I was young, and I was an idealist. My world was shaped in ways that were painfully incompatible with my parents’, and I was reconciled to it. Perhaps they didn’t understand then, but I always hoped—no, expected—they would understand and even gladly welcome my decision someday.
My friends in my youth, already a few, had gone off their own ways. Three remained on the island, but they were all older and married and too immersed in their families and duties to spend time with me. One left for London, and I never heard from him again. Advice and companionship, comfort and conversation—I had none, but I’d long grown used to being on my own regarding so many things. While it disturbed me a little to know I did rather badly in establishing good friendships, I didn’t find it too difficult turning inward for what I needed.
* * * *
It was about a week after my return from Exmoor when I received a letter from Mr. Lovell. A surprise, yes, for I never gave him my address, so I could only assume that he’d asked Vincent for it.
I took to one of my favorite haunts in order to read his letter. The island was laced—intricately, I might add—with an impressive network of footpaths, which offered me some much-needed diversion and exercise. I often wandered aimlessly from one path to another, my nose buried between the pages of a book, wholly unaware of where I was headed but still confident enough to know, regardless of where I found myself in the end, it would be very easy to retrace my steps and emerge from the trees, stepping confidently onto the grass that surrounded the vicarage. Those footpaths were in my blood, one would say, and I was their supreme master.
Mr. Lovell’s letter was a very genial one, and I believed I smiled all the way through reading its contents.
I don’t think there’s any need to remind you that you’re owed a visit, he wrote. Things in Shepley Abbey have taken a very quiet and, indeed, painfully domestic turn.
With my family once again together (with the exception of Jane and David), normality has set in, and with it, an ever-growing restlessness that’s always been my failing. I do believe the cloistered beauty of your little island beckons.
I chuckled quietly as I read on, my spirits rising with every word. “Yes, you’re more than welcome here,” I murmured. I refolded the letter and pocketed it as I walked on, determined to use up my time properly and not give in to the temptation of hurrying back to the vicarage and writing a prompt response.
A minute or so afterward I realized the air around me seemed to have thickened and turned strangely oppressive, forcing me to breathe more deeply. Though the sun continued to shine and the sky remained clear, the asphyxiating sensation lingered. I gave up on my walk and returned home, a bit disappointed.
I noticed Mama when I walked past the open door to the parlor. She stood just a few feet past the door, her back to me and her head bent.
“I’m back,” I called out.
She spun around, startled, a small gasp escaping her. I saw then that she’d been reading a letter, which she nearly dropped.
“Nathaniel! Oh!”
“I’m sorry if I surprised you.”
The color crept back to her face. Where she turned horribly pale but a moment ago, she now blushed deeply. She fumbled for a few scattered seconds. Her hands shook as she folded her letter and slipped it between the pages of a book she carried.
“It’s quite all right, Natty,” she said with a deep breath. “I—I was just reading a letter from a friend. I haven’t heard from her in a long while, and I’m afraid I got too absorbed in what I was doing.”
“She’s well, I hope.”
“She’s quite ill, I’m afraid.” Mama pressed pale fingers against her temple. The tremor finally left her voice, and she spoke calmly. “I didn’t see you come in. Is there anything you need, dearest?”
“No, I’m about to wash up for tea.”
“Ah. Very good. After reading my poor friend’s letter, I’m in dreadful need of light conversation.” She smiled at me, and I realized then how tired she looked—aged, almost.
“Are you well?”
“Me? Why, of course! What makes you ask such a thing?” she visibly brightened with amusement, but the exhaustion was still there.
I wiped my hands against my trousers. “I’m sorry for distressing you with our arguments about the work I’d like to do,” I said. “I don’t mean to cause you so much grief, but I’m only trying to show you that I can think for myself, and—”
“Natty, please. This isn’t the time for a discussion.”
I held my tongue and bowed, frowning at my shoes. I wished my parents would listen to me—respect me enough to treat my opinions as those of an adult, not a child.
Mama sighed. “You’re just as willful as your mother. Now come. Give me a kiss and show me you’re not angry. Pray, let’s not start another quarrel.”
I walked to her and kissed a pale cheek. She smiled, her eyes misty as I pulled away. She reached out to graze a hand against my face as though to prove to herself I was flesh and blood. When she spoke, however, her voice was firm and cheerful. “I asked Dorcas to make us some of your favorite almond cakes.”
I hurried upstairs to clean up, my spirits soaring, my mind filled with Mr. Lovell’s letter and the promise of his company.