The Last to Know (2 page)

However, as I shall relate, a recent communication permits me to lay down the burden of certain appalling secrets, secrets that were not mine to share. And perhaps, in so doing, I may find a measure of peace, since I am haunted still by the sadness of the terrible things I saw and heard.

One thing I ask. Refrain from judgment if you can until all the facts have been laid out before your eyes; then you may make of them what you will. Custom binds us still, I know, and society turns on those who flout its laws. Therein is much human happiness destroyed.

But, as the common saying has it, to begin at the beginning. Permit me to take you back, in mind at least, to when you and I were girls of but eighteen.

One afternoon in late September of that year, I received an unexpected invitation. An invitation that was to alter the course of my life and was, perhaps, the principal cause of my never marrying, though, as you know, I have been most frequently asked.

A girlhood friend of my mother’s—a famous hostess but a lady whom I had never met—had suggested that I, as my mother’s eldest child, might enjoy visiting her family’s seat in the North. In short I was invited to be her guest and companion for a month before the rigors of the London Season commenced.

If it seemed a slightly odd request, arriving unsought and unexpected, that was soon explained away. My mother remembered her old friend as a generous and charming person who had famously married into a wealthy and ancient Yorkshire family. No doubt this kind invitation to me was intended as a way of rekindling their formerly close relationship. And if that were so, I was delighted to be singled out as the means to that end.

In town, as I am certain you will recall, ours was a busy household. And, with a constant round of entertainments to organize—my father’s political career was then at its zenith—and a large establishment to supervise, my mother must have been very glad of an offer which would remove even one of her children from beneath her roof for some few weeks. Thus, in short, my father dispatched an acceptance by the fastest post that could be arranged, and I became the envy of my younger sisters and brothers, since I was so favored by our mother’s mysterious friend.

However, I believe that the story truly began, as many odd things do, in a way which seemed entirely trivial, if inconvenient, at the time; a stranger spoke to me on the train as I traveled north to my intended destination.

He said, “I have always obtained singular pleasure from such a conveyance as this is.” Reluctantly, I surveyed the gentleman on the seat opposite mine. I had not observed him closely before that moment as I was too surprised by his being there at all; however, it was impossible that I should entirely ignore him in such a confined space.

His was a most striking demeanor. He had a high, vivid color and rather brown skin—from the sun of faraway places perhaps; his glossy black hair was certainly pomaded. So brilliant was its shine that it put me in mind of a well-groomed horse (absurd, but the image stays with me still). And yet his glance was restless, and he, himself, seemed restive also. However, it was with a certain flourish that he disposed himself against the squabs—one elegant knee slung across the other, one glove on, the other off, the silver-topped cane in his hand used for punctuation as he spoke.

Do you know, I recall my unspoken indignation still? It seemed to me that he felt the most perfect right to be in that carriage compartment: the compartment which had been reserved for me and me alone (if one were not to count Jane, my maid).

It was at Furneau Minor, a village amongst the high sheepfolds of the Yorkshire Moors, that this unexpected gentleman had flung an expensive if shabby leather valise into the luggage rack above my head as the train lurched away from the platform. He sat before I could protest at the intrusion, confidently leaning across the little space between his knees and my own. Raising his hat, he smiled most directly into my eyes. I was confused by his arrival and insulted by such easy familiarity.

I pressed the bell to summon the conductor, but, once that flustered man arrived, he insisted, though apologetically, that the stranger had a valid ticket and must be permitted to retain his seat.

My unsought companion proffered a small printed card for inspection. The seat number was clearly marked upon it, as was the compartment and the carriage. The booking office at Waterloo had, it seemed, made a mistake, and though the conductor was embarrassed by such an occurrence, he respectfully pressed the point. A valid ticket and a full train settled the matter in his eyes: the stranger had a right his place.

You will recall, Cousin, that I was never described as shy in my youth, and thus, in consequence, I questioned the hapless railway official with some asperity, but at last, the conductor shrugged. Though he was embarrassed, that shrug said he was a man much put upon by the authorities and there was nothing to be done. I regret, still, that my response to this spinelessness was overwarm.

The stranger broke in to this exchange. Perhaps he meant to be amusing. “You see? There is no help for it. We must become traveling companions, dear lady.” Dear lady? I was not my mother, I was a girl of less than twenty. I found his tone insufferable, his roaming eye impertinent. Taking advantage of the gentleman’s remarks to me, the conductor retreated with dispatch, bowing. And I? Since there was no help for my situation, I, too, retreated from the fray; dignified silence became my traveling cloak. It was then that the stranger ventured his remark about train travel. He was determined to persist.

I limited my acknowledgment to the smallest, the most rigid, of nods and fastened my eyes to the pages of my book. We had not been introduced. How could we be? There was no one suitable to advance the acquaintance.

The gentleman appeared to accept this most plain of hints, and the fingers of one hand danced on the windowsill, beating out the rhythm of the iron wheels beneath us. Frowning, he gazed out upon the passing moors in silence until, after some moments, he stripped off his other glove with an impatient sigh. Light caught at the ring on the smallest finger of his left hand: a bright and momentary glint. I remember thinking it to be the very signal and marker of this man: a faceted stone in a gentleman’s signet? Vulgar
and
ostentatious.

Ah, Cousin, I am certain that I see you shake your head. You are correct. I understood very little of the world in those days and was, perhaps, overcensorious. I am a little wiser now, I hope.

Time passed, and at length the stranger could not contain himself. Impulsively, he spoke again. “Riding upon a train, such a very convenient inspection of the countryside is afforded. And without the tedium and inconvenience of coach travel. Would you not agree?”

Jane, my maid, was absent from my side since I had asked her to obtain some India water from the steward and she had not returned. If she had been present, I am certain that this further remark would not have been ventured; a lady alone is so very vulnerable. Wordlessly, I glanced at my unsought interlocutor with a gentle frown.

A small digression. Perhaps you will recall, Cousin, that my mother would instruct us, before a party, on the subject of the expressions? “Girls, use your faces as little as can be contrived. If you do not smile or frown excessively, the skin is preserved even to old age. And, always remember, a lady should be grave and sweet. Restraint in all that she does is the hallmark of good family. I have always felt that absence of such a quality as this is first signified in the muscles adjacent to the eyes. Men of sensibility and worldly experience will note such a sign on a girl’s face. Note well, and pass by.” Ah, restraint. I am old now, but perhaps, if I had been a more attentive daughter, my skin would better display the fruits of my mother’s advice.

At that time, however, my expression was severe, and a gentleman of sensibility, I felt, would have respected what lay behind it. But this person, it seemed, was not sensitive. His lips quirked. I attempted
froideur
and failed; my voice trembled. “Sir, I can have no opinion in this matter, for I am reading my book.”

Certain I had sounded snappish—never an attractive quality—I retreated in confusion to the page before me. I was attempting to make sense of a volume of sermons from the shelves of my father’s library; he had given it to me so that I should be reminded, amongst strangers, of the unchanging moral obligations of a lady of good family. I held the book higher so that my unsought traveling companion might see the title on the spine,
Half Hours with Great Minds; Christian Precepts at Work in the World,
yet the wretched thing quivered in my fingers.

With dread I felt a familiar heat mount past the embroidered collar of my pink and gray silk traveling ensemble. My face became hot with rage and shame, a certain match for the hue of my gown.

Perhaps, Cousin, you might recall this particular toilette? It seems to me that I can see you before me now on the day when first I wore it. It was during our first Season of the previous winter, and I was much complimented on its cut and color—though not by you, I think? Yet, I have ever prized your directness; currying favor by flattery is nothing to me, nor ever has been.

Now, that particular dress had long been a favorite of mine, and as I set out for Yorkshire, my mother declared that, though London had seen a little too much of my “pink and gray,” it should still serve for the Provinces. The gown would be unfamiliar there and the cost of another traveling costume thus avoided. This was a consideration since my younger sister Charlotte would remove from the schoolroom in the coming winter. Two girls “out” in society and the expense, as we know, is considerable.

Yet here I was traveling in the late warmth of an Indian summer and wearing a costume created for cooler days. Thus it was not emotion alone which provoked my blush, though I was becoming hotter by the moment beneath the perusal of the stranger. Worse, in my agitation, I apprehended that the ostrich feathers affixed to my bonnet must be quivering, for the gentleman directed his eyes to a point above my head. He shook his own as if awed—or, possibly, confused.

If it was the color—a pink of a particularly rare and fashionable intensity, you will remember—or the height of these adornments which caught his attention I shall not speculate. However, his eyebrows noticeably rose.

Now I positively burned from the heat of the words I wished to utter, yet I am certain that the lineaments of my face did not change. I was inspired, you see, by the calm surface of a lake we were just then passing by.

Once more, it was my mother’s precepts that I turned to. “When distressed, allow the mind to fix upon a distant and glorious object. A great waterfall perhaps, or the sea as—in the words of the poet—it ‘keeps eternal vigil around endless shores.’ Are we not tiny in comparison with God’s work? And are not all the destructive emotions mean and transitory when placed beside the eternal majesty of the Lord’s creation?”

I was convinced that God Himself had placed His lake there for me to see and draw strength from. Yet, did I but know it, my courage had not, then, been completely tested. The freedom of this stranger’s ways had quite deprived me of breath only moments before, and for the second time since I had first sat down did I regret the very tight lacing of my gown.

As you will be aware, Louisa, when young I was frequently complimented on the neatness of my waist and the delicacy of my figure; it is not to break a confidence to say such things can only be obtained by the strictest lacing. But then, dear Cousin, I know you understand, for your struggle in this regard was always so great. I observed it with compassion and respect; it cannot have been easy for you. Another digression! Forgive the ramblings of an old woman. To return . . .

It was at just that moment—and I was never more thankful—that Jane returned to the carriage. Though she was a quiet girl ordinarily, the excitement of the journey had brought a light to her eye and a flush to her cheek that was unusually becoming. From beneath lowered lids I watched the stranger observe my maid; Jane might even have smiled at him—yes, I’m certain of it—except that she apprehended the glance I cast her from behind my book.

Blushing in a manner remarkably similar to my own, my girl curtsied to the wretch in the opposite seat and, gathering her modest gown, neatly navigated a passage around his knees to sit beside me. We both, as one, turned our heads to observe the countryside, green and secret, as it flowed past the carriage window.

“Well?” I whispered the word since I was determined that Jane and I should converse privately. Catching my mood—Jane was a sensitive girl, a good girl—my maid shook her head. Her breath was warm and moist as a cow’s in my ear when she muttered, “I’m very sorry, Miss Elinor. But the steward says there was such a run on the India water, none remains. On account of the heat. I asked that tea be brought as soon as possible. I hope that is satisfactory?”

I closed my eyes and for just one moment, one only, allowed my spine to rest against the seat behind me. It was a blow, I will confess that, but fortunately duty, and the bones of my corset, returned my back to its accustomed upright conformation.

The stuffiness of a closed carriage is certainly a trial on a warm day. I, of course, had determined to ignore the heat; others had not achieved that happy state, and they had drunk all of the India water. I summoned up the image of the lake once more. Its effect was cooling and delightful. Restored, I smiled at my maid. “Thank you, Jane. That was kind. Did you ask the steward how much farther to Carsholt?”

“No more than a further quarter of the clock, dear lady.”

Round-eyed, Jane’s glance sought my own. The stranger had addressed me directly despite my having indicated, quite distinctly and on several occasions, that I did not wish to speak to him.

I shook my head just a little. Jane, sensitive girl, understood the signal and said, rather loudly, “Miss, you look quite unwell. Please allow me to assist you.”

It is essential, of course, that a competent lady’s maid anticipate the needs of her mistress, and Jane was a treasure in this regard. She had very white, small hands, and against the dark sides of her carpetbag they seemed as waxy, as ornamental, as orchids from my father’s forcing house. Yet those same pretty fingers could be practical, and they soon procured a lavender-soaked handkerchief from the depths of the portmanteau and gently pressed it to my eyes, my brow.