A Ship of War, page 7
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:
