Page 42 of A Winter’s Romance

He will not always chide: neither will he keep his anger for ever.

—Psalm 103:9, The Authorized Version (1611)

T wo more days passed in much the same manner. Mr. Ponsonby dropped in morning and evening; the footmen assisted Mr. Thornton with dressing, arrangement, and basic needs (earning themselves the nicknames Hoghands and Bumblelow); Eliza and Kirby shared duties with Shillbeer and Mrs. Simmons to provide his meals. But in the last instance, the women’s ministrations took place in virtual silence. Though both Eliza and Mrs. Simmons made attempts at conversation with Mr. Thornton, he answered with a minimum of words and emotion.

Eliza ought to have been relieved, but she was not, and Kirby said to her at one point, “Miss, somehow he is even scarier when he holds his tongue than when he bellows.” Not scarier, perhaps, in Eliza’s mind, but more in the right , if that made sense .

He was at their mercy, and whatever his reputation and whether or not young women required protection from him, the fact remained that they had begun by deceiving him, and he knew it. Were in fact still deceiving him, apart from the admission worked from them that Eliza was not alone when she tended him.

She pleaded with Lady Arden that the lie about her age be dropped. “It was clear I was not convincing,” she explained, “or why would he accuse me of fibbing? Short of confessing that I’m only oldish , might we at least never make reference again to my age?”

Lady Arden tried to hold her ground. “No confessions!” But seeing Eliza’s shoulders droop, she sighed. “You should have spoken in a low voice or affected a rasp. But what is done is done. Perhaps we might leave off talking about your age and only emphasize your supposed plainness.”

Chuckling, Eliza shook her head. “I will leave that to the rest of you. What person, whether beautiful, plain, or anywhere in between, introduces her own looks as a subject for discussion?” Even Lady Arden had to laugh at this, and the two were still giggling when Mr. Ponsonby entered.

“How do you find your patient?” asked Lady Arden.

“Physically as well as I would hope,” replied the doctor.

Her brow rose inquiringly. “Physically? Do you draw a distinction, Mr. Ponsonby?”

“I do. For it seems to me that he is depressed. Natural, under the circumstances, you will likely say, but I asked a few pointed questions and learned he has been left alone much of the time when his immediate physical needs are not being seen to.”

“Ohh…well,” said Lady Arden, “so he has, bu t we thought he preferred solitude. He is so very cross with us. And we had a supper at the Frances’ last night and a card party at Heathstone the day before.”

“Of course he is cross,” the doctor countered, “and so would we be if we were broken in places and possibly blind. And of course you must keep your engagements, but I think a little company and amusement would take his mind off of his woes. Have you been using your drawing room at all?”

The wringing of her hands was answer enough, and the doctor nodded. “Lady Arden, the inconvenience of Thornton’s presence in your home will be that much shorter and that much less burdensome if you participate in his recuperation, whether he be cross or cheerful as a day in May. Spend time in your drawing room unless he expressly asks you to leave. This is my prescription.”

“Yes, Mr. Ponsonby,” said Lady Arden meekly.

“I bid you good day.”

Lady Arden could not be expected to sit in the drawing room in the morning, of course, else why would Ardenmere have a morning room? But both she and Eliza felt guilty at their needlework and letter-writing nonetheless. At the dinner table Lady Arden attempted to coax her husband into spending the afternoon within doors, but he begged off. “Whatever for? Now that the weather has improved, I intend to ride out.”

“Come, madam,” Eliza braced her. “We will manage it.” Still, she could not help but think this must be what Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego felt, when Nebuchadnezzar ordered them tossed in the fiery furnace .

“What is it?” Mr. Thornton growled from behind the screen, the moment Eliza led the way in. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Lady Arden and Miss Blinker, Mr. Thornton,” she answered, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.

“Just the two of you? What about the other one?”

Eliza hardly wanted to say that she required only one chaperone at a time, so she made light answer. “Kirby was wanted elsewhere.”

He leaped on this at once. “Kirby? Who is Kirby?”

Eliza winced. Mistake Number One. “I meant Kitty. Derwent. The maid. We usually call her Kirby.”

“Because Sir Miles can never be bothered to learn new servants’ names,” Lady Arden interjected. “We had a maid named Kirby once, and now Derwent must be Kirby, as will be her successor, I imagine.”

Thornton gave a grunt, and Eliza smiled her approval at Lady Arden’s quick thinking.

“Well, what do you want?” he resumed. “The other two already fed me.”

“Lady Arden would like the use of her drawing room,” Eliza announced, “unless you were going to nap, sir.”

He was silent a moment, and the two women half hoped he would order them out. But at last he replied, “What would Lady Arden propose instead? That we roll back the carpet and dance? Host the vicar and his wife for tea?”

“Nothing so ambitious,” replied Eliza evenly. “But as you will be subject to whatever is chosen, it is only fair that you have a vote. I might read to Lady Arden or play the pianoforte for her.”

“Please yourself. ”

“Perhaps you might read to me, Eliza,” said her companion. “That will be less…boisterous for a start. The book by Mrs. Hunter.”

“Eliza…” repeated the patient under his breath.

She set her chair near the window, through which the grey December light filtered, and Lady Arden took up her needlework. Because they were not many pages in, Eliza momentarily considered asking Mr. Thornton if he would prefer them to begin at the beginning, but refrained, thinking it would only earn her a sarcastic reply. As a compromise, she said, “If you recall, Lady Arden, the book began with the narrator’s account of his various forbears.”

“I do recall. There were too many to remember, so I hope they will not turn out to be important.”

“I think we need only pay attention to the narrator’s mother,” said Eliza, “the Miss Fairfax of the story, who was in love with her friend’s older brother…”

Much as Lady Arden relished novels and love stories in particular, Eliza had not read more than half a chapter of The History of the Grubthorpe Family before she saw her auditor’s head drooping, the needlework fallen to the floor. The habit of an afternoon nap proved too powerful to resist.

She paused, uncertain. Should she wait until Lady Arden awakened? But when might that possibly be? When Lady Arden usually retired after dinner, she sometimes did not reappear until nearly supper. Perhaps if Mr. Thornton had fallen asleep as well, Eliza might tiptoe from the room.

As if in answer to her thought, his voice broke the silence. “Did everyone sneak out of the room? ”

“No—we are here. But Lady Arden has fallen asleep.”

“After a sentence such as ‘The fever which menaced her life with loss of reason, has left her mind too feeble for any surprise’? Astonishing.”

Clearly there was nothing wrong with the man’s mind, if he could repeat that! “You were listening, then?”

“Short of stopping my ears, I could hardly fail to do so.” Then, almost unwillingly, he added, “You read well, Miss Blinker. A consequence, I suppose, of the eons you have spent teaching school.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, glad that both the screen and his blindness prevented him seeing her surprise at the compliment. “Would you prefer that I continue, then?”

“What, and have Lady Arden miss more touching scenes of character after character bursting into tears? I would not dream of depriving her. But I do wonder if you might choose another book and venture closer. Then I might understand your words more clearly.”

It was like being invited into the den of the wolf, and Eliza hesitated.

“Come now,” he prompted. “What other books has good Lady Arden? I say Lady Arden, for I would be astonished if Sir Miles has opened a book since he left university.”

An un-elderly giggle escaped her. It was absolutely true that Sir Miles never read anything apart from the occasional newspaper. Even the letters he received were read to him by his steward or Lady Arden. And if ever the baronet touched a book, it was merely to pass it to his wife at her request.

She took up the other volume on the table. “There is Rimualdo: or, The Castle of Badajos by W. H. Ireland, author of The Abbess . ”

“Dear heaven. Well, we must take what we can get, I suppose. Let’s have it, Miss Blinker.”

With a little shrug she complied, moving her seat to the end of the lacquer screen dividing the room, so that Lady Arden could see her if she happened to wake. In the gloom the man sat still propped on bolsters in the armchair, but Eliza knew from the footmen’s reports that their duties included assisting him to limp about for twenty minutes at a time for exercise.

If Mr. Thornton objected to the floods of tears in the previous novel, Rimualdo began on an unpromising note, for within the first page both the titular character and his mother subjected the readers to one “agony of distress,” one “overcharged bosom,” and a deal of “anguish vented in audible sobs.”

“We seem to go from bad to worse,” commented Mr. Thornton, when Eliza paused for a sip of water.

“It cannot continue much longer,” she answered. “Rimualdo is taking his leave, after all.”

And so it proved. But when Rimualdo’s father bade his son to “support the dignity of his honored house” and conduct himself in a manner “worthy his noble race,” Mr. Thornton shifted restlessly.

Glancing at him, Eliza saw the furrow of his brow above the bandages. He said nothing, however, leaving her to resume. “‘Then,” cried Rimualdo,’” she read, “‘throwing himself at this father’s feet, “I shall henceforth merit your esteem; for never will I act derogatory to the name I bear, nor sully the hitherto untainted lustre of our family—’”

“That will do,” interrupted Mr. Thornton with a wave of his hand. “Better to go back to the waterpot Miss Fairfax than endure this noble milksop. ”

“But he has finally stopped crying.”

“Only to spout inanities of another sort.”

Eliza shut the book with a snap. “Mr. Thornton, I am perfectly willing to leave Rimualdo for another day, but I must observe that, in your present condition, it will be very easy for you to find fault with whatever is read to you.”

“Undoubtedly, Miss Blinker. You speak plain, good sense, as a woman of your years ought. But if, instead of being a humdrum, schoolteacherly, middle-aged woman, you were born a man who had been subject from his earliest years to speeches such as Rimualdo’s father delivered, you would understand how my impatience is redoubled in this instance.”

“If you have indeed been subject to such speeches,” Eliza rejoined sharply (smarting at his description of her), “should you not be the more interested in how Rimualdo fares?”

“He will prevail of course,” said Thornton. “Don’t they always, in novels like these? After a number of mishaps over which he triumphs and irresistible temptations which he alone resists, Rimualdo will emerge unscathed and spotless.”

“I suppose such stories are meant to encourage as well as entertain. Do you think it so hard for you young men to avoid ‘acting derogatory to the name you bear,’ as Rimualdo put it?” As soon as she spoke her fingers flew to her lips, for she remembered the story about the jilted girl and Mr. Thornton’s breach of promise.

He could not have seen her motion, of course, but again Eliza had the unsettling sensation of having her thoughts guessed.

“I do think it hard,” he answered slowly. “Were my father still living, he would certainly accuse me of having behaved in a manner ‘unworthy my noble race.’”

“Oh?” asked Eliza. It was scarcely more than a breath.

His beautiful mouth twisted in derision, but whether the mockery was aimed at her or himself she could not tell.

“If you are accustomed to reading such stories as these, Miss Blinker, rife as they are with kidnappings, seductions, and every manner of devilment, you can surely listen to a true tale.”

“Have you…one to tell me?”

“Ah…though I cannot see you, I hear the trepidation in your voice. Trepidation not unmixed with eagerness. You schoolteachers must live for gossip.”

She scowled at him. While she could excuse some crossness caused by his injuries, she suspected the desire to nettle others characterized him at all times, cracked ribs or no cracked ribs. “The love of gossip is universal, I daresay,” she replied, “and not confined to schoolteachers. But keep your true tale to yourself, if you would rather.”

“Oddly, I would not rather. It is too tempting. Because, Miss Blinker, unlike the wailing Miss Fairfax or the blubbering Rimualdo, you strike me as a discreet person. Confidential. Quiet.”

She made no response. To say that the girls at Mrs. Turcotte’s Seminary for Young Ladies frequently confided in Eliza was true, but to declare as much would sound both boastful and overeager.

He cocked his head, listening, but then went on. “Exactly. Now, whether this quality stems from your retired existence or from your many and ever-increasing years—”

“Which you do seem to harp upon,” Eliza interjected.

How much he could express without his eyes! For now he feigned surprise. “I? Harp? I meant only respect, Miss Blinker, for you were the one to insist upon your ancientness, and I did not want you to think I forgot it.”

“Hmm.”

“Where was I? Oh, yes. Your retired existence and vast age, combined with our seclusion in this darkened drawing room, the winter storms blowing without—”

“On the contrary,” she interrupted again, “it is overcast today but dry.”

“Miss Blinker, I must insist you be a good counsel-keeper and hold your tongue.” Catching the chuckle she tried to smother, his lips curved in a grin. “To resume: trapped in a darkened drawing room, overcast as the sky without, my sole companion an aged and retiring nurse, I could not forbear revealing my deepest secrets. Indeed, having nothing to contemplate beyond my own vulnerable state, hovering between life and death…”

“You ought to write novels yourself, sir,” she said dryly.

“Considering the ones we have been listening to this afternoon, that is hardly a compliment, though I thank you all the same for your intent. But Miss Blinker, if you are quite ready to be serious, I have a tale to tell which will curdle your blood and possibly send you screaming from the room.”

“Good gracious! Now I freely admit I would very much like to hear what you have to say.”

“Are you so brave, Miss Blinker?”

“I claim only the usual allotment of courage, nothing remarkable.”

“And are you beautiful?”

She inhaled so sharply she coughed. What a sly one he was, catching her unprepared like that! “I—I—surely you cannot expect me to answer such a question! Such an impudent question, at that.”

He sighed. “It was, I confess, but I was lulled by the circumstances I have just described to you. May I humbly work myself back into your good opinion by saying you sound beautiful?”

“For my age,” croaked Eliza, fighting a ripple of panic.

He attempted a half-bow which ended in a wince and a groan. “That went without saying. Beautiful, for your age.” Touching his ribs gingerly he added. “You see what my curiosity cost me. Will you not from pity indulge me with an answer?”

“It is a question a person cannot answer for himself, sir,” she said. “I have…never thought much of my looks, and—neither has anyone else.” It was true enough. There had been one young curate who seemed to like her, years and years ago, but he had little to live on, and nothing ever came of it. Shaking off this memory, she added, “Mr. Thornton, you have wandered from your purpose. Have you changed your mind about telling me a story?”

“I have not.” He shrugged, causing another wince. “It’s a short story, at any rate, and do stop me if you’ve already heard it. I find that, though the years pass, the story lives on and often precedes or accompanies me wherever I go.”

“Is it—the history of your broken engagement?” Eliza asked suddenly. “Because Lady Arden did mention it.” For whatever reason—perhaps the accumulation of little lies she was telling him (or trying not to tell him)—she wanted to be honest about something.

“There.” He lifted a finger and then let his hand drop back against the chair arm. “That is what I mean about my story going everywhere with me, like a species of portmanteau. Do tell me the version you heard. It’s like different varieties of portmanteaux, some leather, some brocade.”

“That you were engaged to a young lady and then…broke the engagement. They then sued you for breach of promise, and you paid the damages.”

“Rather than do what a gentleman should have done in the first place, is your implication,” he finished. “Yes, that version is true in the main, leaving out only why on earth I would be such a scoundrel.”

A mumble came from Lady Arden at this point, and Eliza sprang up guiltily, though she had been doing nothing wrong. But seeing the older woman’s head roll against the back of the sofa, she resumed her seat.

“There was a time when I was as spotless and well-meaning as our hero Rimualdo,” said Thornton. “I too ventured forth into the world, though in my case it was to London rather than the road to Madrid, and in the capital I proved as foolish as any young man, I suppose, doing my share of gaming and carousing and such. But it soon palled because I had dreams of marrying a beautiful young lady I met there. She refused me the first time, but when she returned home after the season, I followed and tried again, and this time she accepted. Imagine, if you will, Miss Blinker, this young man’s joy. A joy only increased when I saw with what urgency she and her family wished the ceremony to take place. We set the date, only to have my father fall ill. My intended bride wept. I wept, but I departed, promising to return when I could, to make her my own. My father lingered some months, months in which my beloved’s letters grew more infrequent and distant. By the time he died, I was frantic with grief and anxiety. I rushed back to her side, without even writing to announce my return. And when I returned—”

“Yes?” said Eliza, hanging on his words in spite of herself. “What then?”

Thornton expelled a slow breath, and she knew he was seeing the scene again in his mind’s eye. “When I returned I found her some months with child. Not mine, I need hardly say, since I was at that time as pure as Rimualdo. Then I at last understood her acceptance of my second proposal and her family’s insistence on an early date.”

“I see. Oh, dear. Dear, dear. But you refused to marry her.”

Another shrug. Another wince. “I did. Some men would have stuck to it, I know. She told me if I truly loved her I would throw my cloak of honor about her. That was how she put it, my ‘cloak of honor.’ But my love had turned to ashes, and so had my honor, I’m afraid. For I thought I would rather be infamous than marry a woman I did not love and who had never loved me. A woman whose every word to me had been a lie. Her father raged; I stood firm. Her family sued; I paid up. And now I carry my little portmanteau wherever I go. Or it carries me. That, Miss Blinker, is the long and short of it.”

“What—became of the girl?”

“A cousin was found to marry her,” he said simply.

That must have been costly for her parents , Eliza thought. Aloud she said, “Have you ever regretted your decision, sir?”

“Ah, there are some houses I am still not received in. Ardenmere might have been one of them, if not for my accident. But altogether it’s enough to make one lose faith in humanity, to see what a little money and time will do for a disgraced man. It’s been ten years now, and even the dowagers are coming around and suffer me in company with their daughters.”

“Why not choose one of those daughters, then?” she heard herself ask. “By doing so you might be redeemed and respectable once more.”

“Is it that easy, Miss Blinker?”

“I think so,” she answered. “For gentlemen of means and—and—”

“And—?”

“And other qualities,” she concluded lamely. “A man of means may be out in the world, making what he will of it. But—if that cousin had not stepped forward to marry your young lady, all would have been lost for her.”

“You blame me for jilting her?”

“Mr. Thornton, I hardly know you to blame you. No, indeed. I was thinking of the young lady, rather, because I—well—I know what it is like to think yourself without option.”

“Surely not, Miss Blinker,” he said in tones of mock horror.

Feeling herself color and glad he could not see it, she amended, “I did not mean I faced the situation of your young lady, to be sure. Rather, I meant that too many women, including myself, must…struggle to make their way in the world, if they are not fortunate enough to marry. Though you have not done so, Mr. Thornton, that was your choice to make. You are a man of means and, as you have observed, the world is willing once more to embrace you. But for women—singleness is too often a result of not having a choice. Because only to men has been given the right of choosing.”

“Miss Blinker the firebrand,” he said softly. “You must explain to me how you came to have no choice but teaching school, for you have certainly awakened my curiosity.”

The warmth of his low voice sent a thrill along her, as if he were not several feet distant but right at her ear, and though Eliza felt her danger she could have cried in frustration when— “Dear me!” came the voice of Lady Arden, yawning. “I must have dozed. Could you go back a page or two, Eliza?”