Time had been kind to us. We coped, comforted each other, and eventually moved forward. Mama’s absence was the only change that took place in the vicarage. Otherwise, everything was as it always had been. Stephen and Dorcas refused to leave our side, and for that I’d always be grateful. Upon them Papa and I leaned, like prodigal children just returning home, weathered and humbled. It was their loyalty—simple, modest, shaped by love—that held us together, helped sustain life in the vicarage.
Papa’s alteration happened in a brief span of time.
Once the limits had been reached—or, rather, once his conscience had pieced itself together and mustered enough strength to look forward, not back—he turned into a gentler, more forgiving man. White streaks appeared in his hair despite his relatively young age, and lines of care marked his features, giving him a sadder, more pensive appearance. His powerful frame suffered a bit of weathering as well, and he was forced to counteract his drooping posture by pushing his shoulders back and raising his chin whenever he was outside.
People often remarked about his tall, imposing manner, for he looked much prouder and statelier than everyone perhaps expected to see from a man who’d just suffered such a cruel loss. How little they knew this regal bearing they so admired vanished once Papa was within doors. In his favorite chair, at the dinner-table, in his room—I’d catch his back and shoulders bent as though an unbearable weight continued to push down on him. Though not as often as before, he continued to speak to Mama—his tone soft, reassuring, loving—when he believed himself to be alone.
I tried, whenever I could, to approach him during these moments. “Perhaps we ought to spend time traveling somewhere,” I offered. “Even if only for a week, a holiday in Brighton will do us some good.”
“I’ll have to consider it, Natty. For now I need to keep to my duties around the parish and here.”
In time I learned to take his evasive answers to mean, “No, never.”
Papa’s duties around the parish never varied. Neither did mine. My education enjoyed a rebirth, in a way. For some time following Mama’s death, I turned to my lessons as a means of easing the pain of her loss. I welcomed the distraction offered by science and mathematics, literature and art. I was sure Papa was equally glad to have one more occupation to help him through difficult and dark times. In our mutual search for solace in knowledge, our energies redoubled, and I devoured my lessons as I never had before. Every so often, I’d go to Newport to search for new books for me to take home.
Sometimes Papa read them, sometimes not, but not once did he forbid me from expanding my reach. In fact, he’d grown quite liberal where my reading was concerned and always kept a respectful distance while I absorbed book after book.
My education went past my eighteenth year. When I turned nineteen, I secured a position as a tutor to the only son of a gentleman who’d recently moved to Everleigh House—because my grandparents’ estate continued to be let out—from London. It was a most desirable position for me since the distance between Gatcombe and Everleigh was practically nothing. It would be easy for me to spend time at the vicarage and with Papa. Visits that required me to make elaborate plans for transportation and other things would never be a problem. Indeed, I could, with my employer’s leave, have tea with Papa every day, if not remain at the vicarage and simply walk to Everleigh for my daily lessons.
In the end, however, I moved into my employer’s great house, with Papa’s blessing. It was as though I’d come to reclaim my heritage even in a menial position.
“Your uncle won’t like your decision,” Papa warned me with a sly little grin as he sipped his drink. He’d set down my new employer’s letter of offer beside his plate after reading it over dinner.
“I don’t think he wishes to dissuade me,” I replied with equal good humor. “Not after the letter I sent him last year. I promised him, remember, to tell him my plans when I turned eighteen?”
“I do, yes. What did you tell him?”
“That I’m resolved to follow my heart in these matters. He didn’t insist as I was afraid he would, Papa. He wrote back to me and assured me if I were to change my mind, his offer of help will still be mine.”
Papa nodded, wiping his mouth with his napkin as he sat back. “I’m pleased to hear that, Natty.”
“It might as well end this way. I think he prefers to sever ties with us. I can’t help but wonder if his offer of help was largely because of Mama and not because of any real concern for my welfare.” I glanced up cautiously.
Papa watched me with a calm and thoughtful look. He said nothing in return, but I somehow suspected he agreed with me.
The last communication I received from Havenstreet was a letter from Vincent, accompanied by a small, wrapped package.
‘Tis a damnable situation, cousin, and I’m sorry for it. Such is the misery that’s caused by imprudence and, yes, family, for even I am feeling the suffocating weight of the marriage vow. With the recent wretched affair that affected our families, Papa and Mama are now doubly determined to ensure a safe and happy haven for Edward, Marianne, and me. Approval from the highest levels of both parties is a requirement. Can you believe that? I might as well go back to university and live out my days there! If I’m forced to bow and scrape and mold my preferences to the image of someone else’s, I’d sooner associate the ordeal with Oxford and its moss-eaten stone carcasses than the preposterous simpering flattery of Northwode Hall.
I don’t expect us to be traveling partners again. I don’t even know why I thought of writing to you, given our situations and the scandal that now taints our family name.
I suppose somehow I feel I can trust you more than anyone I live with. You’re not so bad for all your deficiencies, cousin. Not at all. Sometimes I wondered how things would have turned out had we changed places, and I lived in the obscurity of a murky little cottage instead.
Then again, my prejudices are too strong for me to stretch my imagination that far.
I’m enclosing a small token that I’ve spirited away from your mother’s old bedroom. I doubt if anyone will notice its absence. Better for you to keep it safe, I thought, than allow it to languish, ignored and despised, by those she’d injured. By God, I’d make a good Christian yet.
The package contained a small portrait of my Mama.
“Miss Cecily Ailesbury, age 16,” the inscription said. It was a miniature of a confident, sweetly smiling girl. Dark hair gathered in a crown of curls, pale complexion softened by a rosy blush, she met my gaze with a proud lift of her chin, poised to take on the fashionable world on her coming-out. Vincent didn’t even think to take the painting out of its elegant gilt frame. I thought of writing him a letter of thanks, but his missive left me no doubt as to the finality of our severance.
As I held it in my hand, I realized the miniature—St. Bertram’s miniature—had found its way back to me one final time. I understood then its otherworldly purpose, and for the second time since Mama’s death, I welcomed my ghost with a kiss.
My guesses were eventually proven correct. All of my cousins married—one after another—and no one in the vicarage was told. We never received so much as a hastily scrawled note from Northwode Hall, and handed-down scraps of information were all we had—bits passed on from acquaintances who traveled between Havenstreet and Gatcombe. The connection between us was too painful, too tainted, regardless of where the fault lay, I assumed. Papa didn’t give this any further thought. In fact, he seemed to welcome it with an air of relief.
The breakup of our family was complete.
* * * *
Mr. Phillip Goldwyn hailed from Sheffield and was a widower and a father at twenty-five. He rose from humble but respectable beginnings and married the daughter of his late father’s friend. Mrs. Goldwyn was a delicate creature who, according to her grieving husband, refused to listen to reason and insisted on having a child.
“Give me half a moment of happiness,” she’d pled. “A husband and a child are all I’ve ever wanted.” Mrs. Goldwyn died in childbirth, and her family never forgave Mr. Goldwyn for granting her wish despite knowing the risks. He was isolated, cut off. Like Papa. Like Mama.
Like my family now.
“I regret nothing, Master Wakeman,” he said in that sad, gentle manner that roused a spirit of protectiveness in my breast—one that was as intense and surprising as it was sudden.
He’d inherited substantial property from his only other relative, an uncle from London whom he never knew existed. As it was, Mr. Goldwyn found the noise and filth of the city to be terrible for his son, who was born weak and sickly. He didn’t care to return to Yorkshire once his new home was sold. He instead welcomed the move to Everleigh House with enthusiasm and relief.
“I’m afraid he inherited his poor mother’s constitution,” he said while we both watched little Phillip play with some paper boats I’d made for him. He was a small boy—underdeveloped and pale, reminding me so much of little Mary Tuckett.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, sir,” I replied, meeting Mr. Goldwyn’s gaze with equal self-consciousness. “But you’ve done quite well bringing up your son on your own.”
“Yes, I suppose I have. I’ve grown skilled at choosing the right nurses for him. You’ve yet to meet Amelia, I believe. She’s a good woman. Pip’s long regarded her as his second mother.” He paused and laughed lightly, blue eyes sparkling. “He’s even asked me twice if I planned on marrying her despite our age difference of twenty years. She’s older than I, you know, but never too old for Pip.”
“Perhaps you’ll consider marrying again, sir.”
“Yes, perhaps. Perhaps.”
I watched his laughter subside and took in his figure. His manners. His mind. He wasn’t as worldly or as wealthy as Mr. Lovell, but in all other ways, they were equals. I wondered if those tiny sparks of hope I felt throughout the interview—fleeting glimpses of comfort and companionship whenever our eyes met—were nothing more than desperate attempts on my part to fill up that still-yawning hole left by Mr. Lovell.
Reading Mr. Goldwyn was at first confusing. His natural shyness and reserve masked far too many things, I thought, but once I was hired, small bits began to fall away, one after another. In time, doubts faded, to be replaced by cautious assurance. Our roles served as our shields. We hid behind them whenever fear or anxiety stirred. I hoped—perhaps foolishly—those roles would someday lose their power, and we’d have nothing left for an excuse.
He’d always engage me in long conversations whenever he felt the courage, I think, and I’d gladly stay with him, no matter how tired I was, until he let me go. Little by little, our exchanges would involve the shrinking of our physical proximity. Our growing closeness was so subtle, in fact, I’d never even noticed it till we stood, walked, or sat within touching distance, and I’d catch Mr. Goldwyn’s gaze dropping to which hand of mine happened to rest closest to him with a palpable air of doubt and nervousness.
It was never one-sided, either. He’d caught me a few times staring at him too long, and I’d turn away with an awkward little sound in my throat, my face burning.
Little Phillip, at five years of age, proved to be a bright pupil though his fragile health at times hampered his progress. We both persevered, however, with Mr. Goldwyn urging us on from a discreet distance—a distance that dissolved once school hours had passed, and I was free to spend time with him when he wished for my company.
I often thought of Mr. Lovell during my hours of rest and solitude. At times I’d reread his most recent letter to me, finding much to be cheerful about whenever he shared stories of his growing family. He married Miss Thornber a few months after Mama’s burial, and the lady was now big with their second child. The news didn’t surprise me at all.
* * * *
Today, after school, I received another letter from Mr. Lovell, and I read it in the privacy of my bedroom.
I believe there’s only one true happiness, Nathaniel, but several different roads a man can take to reach it.
You might agree with me, or you might not. I think—no, I’m convinced—the happiness and contentment I feel with Roxana might be defined differently from the happiness and contentment I felt with you, but in intensity and completion, neither surpasses the other. I don’t regret my choice though I do regret not knowing you sooner.
At times I wonder if things would have turned out quite differently had we met well before. Perhaps they would have, and I know I’d have gladly risked my family’s affection for you. I might have proven myself a survivor, restless and wandering the world, with you by my side. As it stands, however, Fortune has thought it a far better thing for me to glimpse what could have been mine in order to appreciate more what’s inevitably laid at my feet. Perhaps it’s an odd philosophy, but it’s all I can manage, with my spirit torn in two and yet brimming with joy.
Someday, perhaps, I’d feel equal to the task of seeing him again as a father and husband, not an ounce of sadness edging my memories of him.
“Yes, someday,” I murmured, folding the letter and hiding it in my bureau drawer.
Just outside my window, directly below it, Everleigh’s garden lay spread in all directions—lush and vibrant, full of life and color. It was far humbler than the gardens at Northwode Hall, but its simple beauty and its promise of quiet comfort far exceeded my uncle’s ostentatious sanctuary. Through the garden two figures strolled, enjoying a quiet, private moment together.
Mr. Goldwyn led his son by the hand and answered little Phillip’s questions about anything that caught his attention. Little Phillip—or, rather, Pip—exuded so much vibrant energy despite his meager appearance. I could feel it even at a distance, even with the glass adding one more layer to my separation from them. Pip’s voice was light and musical, his questions at times broken by giggles or exclamations of surprise.
The child had so long been used to the dreary, smoky confinement of London. His removal to the Isle of Wight must have come as a bit of a shock to him, and he was absorbing his new environment with a great deal of delighted wonder. After some time, perhaps I’d be able to convince my master into an occasional ramble through the footpaths that had long become an inextricable part of my life. Yes, Pip—and Mr. Goldwyn—would adore them.
As he spoke, Mr. Goldwyn glanced up to catch me boldly staring, and he smiled. It was a familiar expression—boyishly uncertain but rich with meaning he seemed to ensure only I could understand. And, yes, I did understand. Very clearly, in fact.
I answered with my own, and from the way his shoulders sagged and his smile broadened in pleasure, I knew he’d read me correctly. We were growing used to our silent language even as we edged closer together, inch by patient, cautious inch. It was only a matter of time before the distance between us would be no more.
Pip noticed his father’s distraction and looked up as well. He laughed and beckoned for me to join them.
“With pleasure,” I said as I waved back though I knew the child didn’t hear me. When I hurried out of my room, I paused before my mirror to inspect my clothes and my hair. The young man in the glass who returned my gaze gave me hope. I saw optimism in his eyes—optimism, determination, and strength.
Love prudently, he said, his words soundless yet loudly heard. I flicked stray hair from my face and then half-walked, half-ran in the direction of the garden.
Pip had wandered off by the time I reached Mr. Goldwyn’s side, and we could hear his light voice laughing and shrieking in delight somewhere among the trees. It hardly mattered; Mr. Goldwyn waited for me in the shade, hidden and patient as always.
That familiar self-conscious little smile of his broadened to an unaffected grin when I reached him, panting. “Where are you off to?” I asked, and he shook his head.
“Nowhere,” he said, his eyes fixed on mine, a soft light in them.
“I’ll have to do something about that.”
Mr. Goldwyn’s grin eased, his gaze dropping to my hands in that familiar doubtful glance. It looked as though he took a moment to decide on something because he stared at my hands in thoughtful silence. I was about to speak when he took a quick, deep breath and reached out to take one of my hands in his.
He raised his eyes to meet mine again. I must have smiled or said something in encouragement—I can’t remember now—because the look of nervousness I’d long grown used to wasn’t there anymore. I saw relief and quiet, exultant joy. I moved my hand, feeling bold now, and laced our fingers together, my heart thundering in a wave of exhilaration and disbelief.
“Yes,” he said quietly after another moment of silence. “You’ve already done something—Nathaniel—more than I’d ever hoped.” He seemed almost in tears. I refused to have it, told him I’d see him smile more often, and kissed him.
THE END