Love and Fury Read online

  I shook my head and looked into my lap.

  “He cut a fine figure once, trim, robust … could dance like any fine young gentleman, at least I thought he was. Not what he is now. A drunk and a failure.”

  “What about his … speculations?”

  She let loose an exasperated huff. “Gambling by another name, is what it is. Wealth without work, that’s what your father believes in. And like all his other schemes, doomed from the start.” She looked at me with a flat stare. “We are always clinging to the edge of ruin, Mary. Surely you feel it.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. I’d only wanted to dance with her, just that.

  “Does your dear Jane Arden know how wretched and low we truly are?”

  I shook my head.

  “That you lie across my threshold at night?”

  Now I was swallowing tears.

  “And when all of Beverley discovers who your family is, do you think you’ll be welcome at the assembly-room balls?”

  I stood, towering over her, not because I’d grown, but because she had diminished. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand.

  “Don’t you want me to be better than we are?” I asked. “To try? For all of us.”

  She looked up at me. “Your father’s right about you, Mary. You think you’re better than your own family. That you deserve better than what I’ve had.”

  “I see your unhappiness! Why should I want that?”

  The cords in her neck tightened.

  “You think you can hide the truth of us, our failures, of you? Hide behind fancy John Arden and his cloying daughter?”

  “You don’t know her!”

  “No, Mary. She doesn’t know you. But she will, soon enough. Everyone finds us out in the end.”

  She stood and swept past me out of the room.

  I hadn’t the heart to tell Eliza the ball was in jeopardy. I was sure I’d think of something to salvage it, to keep up appearances, and secure for us a place our past couldn’t touch. But I lay awake every night with a roiling pit in my stomach, the fear of Father being found out, and the rest of us dragged down with him. I felt a rising panic to belong. The person who could save me was Jane. But the less I felt worthy of her, the more demanding I became.

  Like a horse sensing its rider’s fear, her friends resolved to form a close knot around her and keep me away. They were cruel to me and my sisters. The one with the sweet upturned nose tied a kite to Eliza’s hair, another sent Everina to fetch striped paint and pigeon’s milk from a store, where the clerk laughed in her face. Jane asked me to the theater, but the girl with the penny-colored hair told me the play would be above my understanding, and I shouldn’t bother. Jane didn’t seem to be part of it, but she didn’t step in to defend me.

  “I am singular in my thoughts of love and friendship,” I told her on our last walk together on the Common. “I must have the first place with you or none.”

  “Silly you,” she said, threading her arm through mine. “You’ll meet a man at the Norwood ball, an East Riding man, and then the world will change its colors, and you’ll change yours.”

  “I don’t want to meet a man.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  “But why don’t you trust my colors now? These that I am, without a man?”

  She tugged my arm to stop. Her cheeks were hot pink. “Do you not believe in your future happiness as a wife?”

  “Is there no happiness without being a wife?”

  “What other life is there?”

  “A governess. A schoolteacher.”

  “So, living without security of any sort.”

  “Living free.”

  “Of what?”

  “The tyranny of marriage. Of men.”

  She laughed in a nervous way. “My father, a tyrant?”

  “No! Not your father. Who worships your mind, and holds you in the highest regard. Yet you betray him by playing girl games and pretending your own intelligence doesn’t exist.”

  “Mary, what are you saying?”

  “That I don’t think this ball should be the apex of our lives, the all and everything, and a single dance the promise of happiness, and the end of this, who we really are, without men. Just us.”

  “I am sixteen years old,” she said, enunciating each word, her lips taut. “This ought to be my coming-out year. And while we don’t have the means for a ball in my honor, and I may not have the pomp and circumstance I’ve dreamed of, I tell you now, Mary, that I intend to pin up my hair, hold my neck long, dance my steps, and hope for a husband.”

  She didn’t say good-bye, just picked up her skirts and hied in the direction of home.

  * * *

  “Tell me where I’ve erred?” I wrote to her that night. “I hope my owning myself partly at fault, to a girl of your good nature, will cancel the offense. I have a heart that scorns disguise, and a countenance which will not dissemble.”

  I couldn’t bear to go to school the next day, but decided to deliver the letter myself at our usual lesson time. Their servant led me to the study, where John Arden was bidding good-bye to an older man with small round spectacles and cheeks like wrinkled apples.

  “Oh, Miss Wollstonecraft,” he said, surprised to see me. “I’m afraid our Jane isn’t feeling well today. I assumed she’d have written to tell you so. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” I said, embarrassed. I stuttered, he stuttered, both searching for something to say, when the old man offered his white-haired hand to me, to save us both.

  “Marmaduke Hewitt, at your service.”

  “I do apologize!” said John Arden. “Miss Wollstonecraft, meet Mr. Marmaduke Hewitt.”

  “Always a pleasure to meet another fresh-faced friend of Miss Jane’s. What a collection she has!”

  “Oh no,” said John Arden. “There are none quite like Miss Wollstonecraft. Just as there are none quite like you, old friend!” He gave Hewitt a warm pat on the back. “Mr. Hewitt is apothecary by trade, but scientist, bird-watcher, bug collector by nature.”

  I managed a small smile. “I have a brother who knows quite a bit about bugs—anyway, he seems to.”

  “My next apprentice!” Hewitt said with a jollity so unmatched to my mood that I was nearly disarmed.

  “You see, I was his apprentice when I was quite young,” said John Arden. “He allowed that I might serve him, doing nearly nothing of value, in exchange for hours at liberty with his microscope. We still meet once a week merely to trade observations of the natural world.”

  The old man’s face brightened, looking at his friend. “I do think my young apprentice keeps the world alive for me. It was a bargain well worth making.”

  He allowed that he must be on his way, shook my hand again, and offered to show himself out. When he was gone, I pulled the letter from my pocket. It was shaking like a dry leaf in my hand.

  “If you would … give this to Jane for me?”

  “Of course.” He took the letter. “You mustn’t overworry. I’m sure it’s just the whirling prospect of Whitsuntide. It brings out—”

  “The worst in everyone,” I cut in. “In me, anyway.”

  I could tell he didn’t know what to say. How could he? Instead, he cleared his throat, picked up a book from his desk, and handed it to me.

  “Essays on Friendship?” I said.

  “I brought it down from the dusty shelves for Jane. But you’re a faster reader.”

  I knew then that Jane had shared our encounter with him. I held the book to my chest. “Do you think I’ve lost her forever?”

  He gazed over the mantel at the portrait of his wife, then looked at me.

  “In my experience there are few things in life that are irrevocable. What one feels today, however awful, will not be the same tomorrow, or next week, or next year. Given time, everything changes. Usually for the better.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sure by the ball next week, all will be forgotten.”

  I looked down at my s
hoes. “I’m afraid, that is … Well, Mama isn’t feeling herself just now. We have no chaperone.”

  “Oh. I see,” he said. “Is there anything I might do?”

  I couldn’t tell him that Mama had retreated to her bed, that my brother Henry was hanging on by a thread. That I was ashamed of my family, my life.

  “There’ll always be another Whitsuntide,” I said.

  * * *

  To my relief there was no school the week it began, as its various festivities captured Beverley’s imagination. No one could sit still, or speak of anything else. I froze when I caught sight of Jane in the street, surprised that she waved to me and crossed to my side. She even squeezed my hand.

  “When Father caught the breeze of your dilemma, well, he seemed most concerned for your circumstance, and I’ve persuaded him to write a letter to your mother. She should have it this afternoon. You mustn’t miss the ball, Mary, not this one. It will change everything, I promise you,” she said, as if all was forgotten between us.

  Mama sat up in her bed and seemed oddly flattered by the letter when it arrived. John Arden, in his sincere, gentlemanly way, asked after her health, offered to chaperone me and Eliza, assuring her that he had a keen eye for virtue, and would guard it with his honor. She consented, having lost the will to object to anything at all, but so like her, thrust me a warning: “I’m only letting you go in hopes you’ll find you and your sister a husband.”

  It was the best of all worlds. I wouldn’t have to fuss about Mama or worry about her, make conversation. I would be with Jane. Now that Whit week was upon us, Father no longer cared what anyone thought. He didn’t wash or change clothes, rushing off to the cockfights and horse races, early morning, late night, and drank in between, I supposed, at any inn that would have him. We were free of them both, just as I’d hoped to be, on our own.

  Eliza and I, with Everina’s keen help, began our dressing at half-three the day of the ball, in order to move about in our gowns and grow easy in our steps. My dress was too big in places, but Eliza pulled it tight and secured it with a few straight pins, making doubly sure they didn’t poke me. We curled our hair and put on our gloves. We each had two dances we could be sure of pulling off, a Scottish reel and a minuet, which struck terror, I knew, in many hearts, as it was usually the first dance, performed by one couple alone, with everyone else looking on. It would show, more than any other, that we were worthy of Beverley society. Mama complained of a headache and retreated to her bed, which allowed us to practice our steps in the parlor, all three of us sisters merry.

  But it wasn’t to last. A light commotion outside the front door alerted us to Henry sitting on the steps with his bag of clothes at his feet, running dirty fingers through his mop of hair, blubbering.

  “Henry! What are you doing here?” I pulled him to standing, a rag doll with a tearstained face. “What’s wrong?”

  “The other boys,” Henry said. “They told me to do it. I’m sorry, Mary. I’m sorry.”

  “Do what, Henry? What have you done?” I saw the note pinned to his coat, pulled it off, and read it. The charity school had tossed him out; he was never to return. I felt my shoulders drop, and the letter fall like a weight in my hand.

  “You threw a rock? Through a window?”

  “The other boys said it was a science experiment.”

  “Oh, Henry.” I pulled him toward me and let his forehead fall to my shoulder. “Why would you listen to stupid boys?”

  “They said we’d put it back together, all of us, like a p-p-puzzle. But then they ran away when the glass fell.” He twisted the buttons on his shirt. “And it was only me left.”

  “Never mind, Henry,” I said, stroking his hair. “Never mind.”

  Eliza and Everina stood in the doorway, now understanding Henry’s plight, and our own. We traded stricken glances. If Mama found out, or Father, all hell might break loose, and the ball be forbidden, when we were as close as we’d ever been.

  “What will we do, Mary?” Eliza asked.

  Thinking quickly, I installed Henry in the kitchen with buttered toast and a pile of illustrated books, some paper and pencils to draw with, and made him promise to be quiet. Lucy, who had charge of James and Charles, agreed she would try to keep him occupied until he tired, then put him to bed herself. She would make Mama dinner, and if Everina could take it to her room, perhaps she’d not find out. Not until tomorrow, anyway.

  “Can you do that, Everina?” I asked.

  Everina shook her head. “Mama likes me least of all when she’s in a mood!”

  “It’s me she doesn’t like.”

  “But me next, after you.”

  “You could offer to brush her hair,” Eliza said. “She never refuses that.”

  “When you offer,” said Everina, biting her nails. “You’re the one who brushes her hair. Not me!” She was crying now, afraid she would fail at her task.

  Eliza looked at me, and I knew at once what she was thinking.

  “No!” I said.

  “I don’t want to go, anyway,” said Eliza. “I just wanted to have a dress, and put it on, and curl my hair, and imagine myself at Norwood, but I’m not ready. I wouldn’t know what to say if a man asked me to dance.”

  “You’d say yes!”

  “No I wouldn’t! I’d be too afraid. And then I’d sit the rest of the night pretending to be like the drapery, and hoping that no one talked to me at all.”

  “You’re going to the ball!”

  “You can’t make me, Mary. And Everina’s right. Mama likes me better. I’m the one who should stay. I’ll brush her hair. You go. Be with Jane.”

  I looked across their faces: Henry confused, Everina crying, Eliza already pulling her gloves off by each finger, Lucy bouncing Charles on her hip.

  “Go for us,” said Everina. “Remember every detail, so you can tell us later.”

  Henry turned to press his face against the window, excited by the sound of horses’ hooves. “There’s a carriage. Stopping in front of our house!”

  Eliza put my cape around my shoulders, and fastened it at my neck. “Make some excuse for me. You know the rules. Your minuet is strong. It was always you who should go.” She kissed my cheek. “You’re the brave one, Mary.”

  * * *

  I remember every detail, little bird, as if living it again. Sitting in the carriage, fighting my own well of tears and pretending to smile, my mother’s words ringing in my ears: If they found out who you are … But as our carriage proceeds, even I begin to believe. John Arden attributes my uncharacteristic silence to butterflies, “the most natural thing in the world.”

  “Never mind butterflies,” said Jane. “Prepare to be dazzled!”

  Dazzled I was, as Norwood came into view, elegant like nothing I’d ever seen: a fine country house, scaled to fit the town in front, but with a parkland at its rear. Its neat red brick, stone pediment and plinths, and torchlight welcomed the throng of people stepping from coaches, landaus, and chaises, including me, in my silk gown and white kid gloves, relieved to leave the truth of my own life behind.

  The ballroom itself, with its powder-blue walls, pristine floor, marble mantel, boasted three chandeliers, each with a hundred candles blazing above us like galaxies unto themselves. And how glad I was to find Marmaduke Hewitt the master of ceremonies, with his cheerful red cheeks. He remembered my name—“How could one forget a Wollstonecraft?”—and declared that he would make it his mission to introduce me to suitable partners, though he apologized that “We’ve a surplus of ladies this evening, and a rare lack of men.” Something about a light influenza among the ranks.

  Wanting to get my bearings, I stepped to a wall where I watched a sea of pale pink and off-white silks twirl amidst the scarlet wool of the East Riding coats. I recognized a few of the girls from school, poised at the front of the crowd, waiting, nearly desperate, to be chosen by a man—as they were, one by one. I was surprised how much it rankled me. I thought of our headmistress telling us all how we ough
t to walk, sit, speak, be, if we intended to attract husbands. The rules, all the rules, and Everina repeating them to me late at night, so I didn’t forget. After all the anticipation, I now felt the spectacle and falseness of it.

  Then I saw Jane, cheeks pink from dancing, standing under a chandelier in her robe à l’anglaise, cream satin brocaded with floral sprays, pleated robings, and striped ribbon rosettes, blooming like a peony in spring. I can see her, even now, turn to walk toward me with her beaming smile. That’s when the idea possessed me.

  “I would like to call a dance, Mr. Hewitt. May I?”

  “Of course!”

  “A minuet, please.”

  “But we’ve had our minuets. We’re on to country dances.”

  “I’m begging you.”

  Hewitt looked around at the paired couples. “I have no one free.”

  “Jane is free.”

  Jane, three steps away, looked at me, stricken. I offered my hand.

  “Please, Jane. This is the dance we learned together. And if ‘there are more Ladies than Gentlemen’—”

  “I know the rules, Mary!”

  The minuet was struck, the first chords of the violin. The dance floor emptied. Jane glared at me but took my hand. As we moved to the center, I felt the crowd gape at us, but I didn’t care. Step, together. Right, left, right, together. I played the man, but we were mirrors of each other: small, graceful steps in perfect time, the sink, the rise, the giving of our right hands, the giving of our left, never looking down or away, but into the other’s eyes as we were taught.

  Every fiber of my being stood at attention, our bodies one, our turns perfect circles.

  When the last chord sounded, Jane curtsied politely, as all partners must, then picked up her skirts and fled outside. By the time I caught up with her, she was almost to the stream out back. She turned to me in the jewel light, lungs fanning against her bodice, her face on fire.

  “How could you humiliate me in front of all the town?!”

  I was winded too, and could hardly form words, but still hoped she’d felt what I had, or that I could persuade her of it. “This ball is beneath you, Jane, beneath all of us. Can’t you see it? Pretending to be something we aren’t, all in service of securing a husband, enthralled by any scarlet uniform, forget what man inhabits it!”