Ten. Lost Horizon
Ten
Lost Horizon
Portsdown Lodge, August 10, 1865
Sir Francis lay in bed, fading in and out of sleep, gazing up at the ceiling with weighted-down eyes. There was no need to look out at sea, no need to watch the horizon in anticipation or fear. He would soon join his departed family in a new celestial order. There would be no divisions anymore, no favorites or long-standing grievances—only gratitude for this final communion among them all.
Fanny knelt by the bed. She was always there now, making hers the last face he would see, but he no longer minded her presence. This was how he knew death must be near. Nothing on this earth could ever again be altered by him; nothing would feel his touch. What a strange notion, to know you were already a ghost. And he would be leaving nothing of value behind; Fanny had made sure of that.
It had been over a month since the fire on the lawn that had led to his collapse. He could not know such destruction and remain pure and steadfast in fatherly love. This caused his Christian soul to despair, coming so close to his own moment of reckoning before the Lord. Fanny’s act of desecration was permanent and acutely personal—she knew his wishes, had seen his efforts to protect it all. How did one forgive someone for such violation?
George quietly entered with another letter from America. “Shall you read it to the admiral, miss?” He averted his eyes as he asked. But there was no one else to receive the correspondence, the other children having come and gone over the course of the last several weeks, only to now be hurrying back.
Fanny took the letter from George, still on her knees. This was the only way that Sir Francis could tell she was sorry. She never uttered a word of apology but constantly prayed instead—he could not imagine those prayers or their recipient, given what she had done. But she knelt and prayed as if yielding in supplication before him, his bed as altar, his body as sacrifice.
Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Francis Austen, G.C.B.
Portsdown Lodge, Hampshire, England
August 1, 1865
Dear Sir,
We write today with utmost concern, having not yet received reply to our earlier letter. As we wrote you on the 3rd of last month from Liverpool, and again from Boston on the 16th, we are now safely home, to the great relief of our father. Although our departure on the China caused him great distress, he has withstood it well, for which we are both most grateful and not at all—we happily suspect—the chief female presence responsible.
Of most importance to us, in writing, is an assurance of your own health and spirits. We commenced our correspondence with you at such a tumultuous time for our country, and your gracious replies, offers of hospitality, and most amiable companionship so greatly lifted our battered spirits. We can only pray that we have had some effect in kind, no matter how small.
We want to assure you, in turn, that your bequest is safeguarded in our possession with the greatest of diligence and protection. Do not fear, should you be relayed news to the contrary. There is some dispute with Mr. Denham Scott, who, in being recently betrothed to Henrietta, believes himself entitled to ownership of her personal property as well. We hereby seek to anticipate and address any misgivings or concerns of yours that may arise, should you somehow be made aware of a recent decision by Sir Cresswell of the divorce court, as is being reported in several London newspapers and abroad. Sir Cresswell dismissed Mr. Scott’s petition for ownership and, as of today, we continue to prevail in the American courts as well. We are confident that the matter rests for now in Henrietta’s favor, and will write immediately should we learn otherwise.
We cannot help but wonder what your beloved late sister would say to this admittedly disheartening state of affairs. Where is love, Miss Austen might indeed ask, as do we—how on earth shall one find a happy ending? She might resolve somehow to write into being a better outcome than appears possible at present. For now, we draw hope and comfort from her works that the full measure of justice is always at hand. The Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court convened regularly during our absence to discuss your sister’s great works, and we share the Ciceronian sentiments of Justice Mackenzie on “Mansfield Park” as follows: “Freedom is not about ensuring you get everything you want, but rather becoming the best self that you can be. Therein lies life’s great reward for us and those around us.”
Despite the actions of others , we do not see their receipt of any great reward. Their state of loneliness continues, as do their true and deepest desires. We question whether self-respect can even exist without respecting others, and only feel pity on their behalf.
We trust that this letter will reach you, and that someone will take exertion to reply on your behalf and alleviate our great concern for you, our dear friend.
Gratefully and respectfully yours,
Henrietta and Charlotte
He made little movement as Fanny read, just the occasional fluttering of his eyes without seeing, a small noise from the back of the throat that was something less than speech. Did she know how alone she soon would be? The grandchildren never yearned to visit her—she did not craft toys for them, make a little dell among the trees to play in, save the tartest cherries to watch their faces scrunch with delight as they ate.
When Fanny finished reading, she put the letter down on the quilt, then her head, and let out one single, strangled sob. It was as if her very being was trying to hold back even this final display of emotion toward him.
He felt himself raise his left hand next to her head, almost beyond his will. It was taking everything he had inside him, and oh, how he regretted the exertion. But he was her father still, the only one she would ever have—that was always the great privilege and burden of the role. No one else could soothe her pain on this matter, or grant her forgiveness: it all rested with him.
With eyes barely open, he slowly brought the hand down to rest near hers. She grabbed it, hard, but not to keep him there with her. She was holding on to him, instead. She knew what world she had left for herself.
It always came too late, such understanding. Only with crisis did we achieve clarity. The pain cut through everything else, cleared the horizon, made us finally see. No telescope was necessary, at the very moment when there was nothing left to discover.
He fully closed his eyes, his hand still in hers. He had done his last fatherly duty to the end.