Chapter 5
“Miss Smith.”
“Mr Jones.”
That was how our sixth annual encounter began.
The young lady had matured into a lovely young woman and there were no two ways about it.
She would make a lucky man very happy one day.
She looked much as she had the previous year, but she had achieved the rare combination of seeming mature, when necessary, though still able to be impertinent when she wanted to.
“If I recall correctly, you should be coming up on twenty in a fortnight. Next year you will reach your majority. How go the wars?”
She laughed gaily, which lit her eyes as prettily as they had the last time I used that line a year earlier, and she showed no objection to the implication that I hoped to meet again the following year.
“Win a few, lose a few, Mr Jones. The dreaded entry of my youngest sisters into society has gone less terribly than I expected. I made modest progress with improving productivity and amassed quite a tidy sum to add to my mother’s jointure.
It seems this project we have been working all these years is bearing fruit. ”
I was glad to hear it, though hopeful it would not curtail our annual meetings. To be honest, I hoped to continue them until one of us married, and that event seemed highly likely for both within the next year or two. We were of an age where it was becoming the thing to do.
“I applaud your efforts, Miss Smith. I have always admired your grit and determination, so my hat is off to you.”
She smiled very prettily but then became slightly embarrassed by the praise. She would keep the smile and lose the embarrassment over time, so I was satisfied.
“All my sisters remain much as they were,” she sighed with just a touch of resignation.
“The eldest is still the kindest and most beautiful woman I know. My mother goes on all day about how she will save us from the hedgerows,” she said with a frown, then even more sadly, “After all, she cannot be so beautiful for nothing.”
“Has she failed to notice the rather obvious fact that she has at least two very beautiful daughters?”
She blushed prettily. “You would have to see Jane.”
“None of that!” I replied as sternly as I could manage. “Do you remember what I said about your beauty in that first meeting?”
She thought about it a while, and finally ventured, rather timidly by her standards, “You suggested I had no idea what sort of beauty I would grow into.”
“I stand by that. You grew into a true beauty, and no man can deny it!”
“No man, but—” she sighed.
“Say no more.”
“My sister has always had a sunny and optimistic disposition, but she is approaching two and twenty and she grows… fatigued.”
“I understand,” I said, and wondered if I would have to start rounding up men to bring to her town, though the idea of meeting her parents was something I would rather avoid.
She grimaced. “My next youngest is eighteen and practises the pianoforte diligently despite a dearth of talent. She has become obsessed with Fordyce’s sermons.”
I shuddered visibly. “The man has occasional words of wisdom, but most of it is utter rubbish. He wrote sermons for young women when he had even less contact with young women than I do. I have forbidden my sister from reading it.”
“I agree. Would that I could do the same.”
“I understand. She should at least be proper?”
“That she is… mostly. She tends to inject her abstracts into every conversation, which is tiring. She is, unfortunately, the plainest of the sisters, and she dresses like a fifty-year-old parson’s wife, so my mother harangues her often.”
“I am curious,” I asked. “You have accumulated significant sums, no?”
“Yes,” she replied brightly. “Nearly three thousand so far and since my mother’s portion was only five to start with, that seems a significant advancement.”
“Very significant!” I said, genuinely impressed. She had been extraordinarily productive.
“Why not split that amongst the elder daughters as a dowry. A thousand is a dramatic improvement over none,” I asked curiously.
“To do that I would have to disclose what I have been doing all these years, which would curtail future endeavours.”
“That seems unfortunate. One would think nearly doubling your mother’s portion should relieve her fears.”
“One would think,” she replied resignedly.
I let the matter rest, suspecting her mother almost certainly did not know the sum.
I have an aunt who cannot be convinced she was in the wrong on any subject, and one eventually learns not to fight losing battles.
How much worse would it be for a young lady who could not escape her parents, than for an independent man putting up with his irascible relative a fortnight a year.
“I have decided two things, Mr Jones.”
“Do tell,” I said. We had not canvassed the two younger sisters, but since I could write their likely futures for the next decade without ever meeting them, it seemed unnecessary.
“The first is that, if any of my sisters gain a worthy suitor who only lacks encouragement, I will own the truth to supply a dowry, and accept the loss of control of the funds, and hope my parents do not burn all I have earned.”
I hated that idea. “Can you not keep the money where your father cannot access it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father lawfully owns it in principle, but that is not the same as controlling it in practice. If he does not know how much you have, you could give it to a trustworthy relative and put it out of his reach. For example, if you wanted to give your sister one thousand, nobody need know about the other two. Have you a relative who is absolutely honest?”
“I do, and that is an excellent idea. I have been hiding my activities from him all this time, but if I must disclose it, I will only tell him what I can and enlist his help.”
I was happy I had given her a sound idea, as happened from time to time.
I just hoped the relative would come up to scratch.
I briefly considered offering myself as her trusted banker, but that idea had so many holes I had to abandon it at once.
I knew I was trustworthy, but she did not.
As a dependant minor, she had few options save the stealth she had employed for five years already.
A trustworthy relative was the best she could hope for.
She seemed a bit brighter, as if a mostly hopeless situation had become reasonable, so she sought to escape the discussion while her mood was at its zenith.
“Tell me about your sister, Mr Jones. Is she still in school?”
My sister always brought a smile to my face, so I was happy to speak of her. I spent a few minutes describing our last winter’s holidays, which included a trip to the lakes, and a few anecdotes from her letters, then got to the heart of the matter.
“She did well enough in school, but never entirely got over her shyness, nor did she make any true friends. I took her from school at her request and hired a companion. They have gone to summer in Ramsgate.”
“I hope to see the sea one day,” she replied ruefully with almost a pout.
I chuckled. “I am certain you shall.”
She shrugged but did not debate the matter.
“They are in Ramsgate now?”
“They are, and she seems to be enjoying it very much. She mentioned enjoying beach walks and water painting. It is hard to beat the seaside for subjects. The house has a good pianoforte, so she has a lot of practice.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“Yes, I remember my first tastes of freedom as a young man.”
She sighed and I wanted to kick myself again, since her only taste of freedom, as far as I could tell, was obtained clandestinely.
I tried to distract her with more. “I will join her in a week, which should be pleasant, though she seems to be enjoying herself so much she only writes every ten days or so.”
Miss Smith started at that, which I could not understand in the least.
She sat up straight, and spoke emphatically, “Did you follow my advice years ago?”
“Yes, we have written every week like clockwork, with the minor exception of the past few weeks, when I was expected imminently.”
She still looked agitated, which was beginning to worry me, though I had no idea what she was worried about.
“The companion—did you know her personally; or did one of your relatives?” she asked emphatically.
“No, but she came with excellent references.”
“Did you interview those references personally?”
Now I was beginning to either worry or be annoyed, but I answered carefully. “No, but they were excellent.”
She sat stewing on that for a minute, so I finally asked, “Does something worry you?”
I had no idea what could worry her but wanted to find out so I could relieve her anxiety or do something about it.
“You will think me a silly goose when we meet next year?”
I admit I was momentarily distracted by the pleasure of anticipating that meeting, even if it was a year away.
“I would never think that. You remember we discussed such things a few years ago.”
She laughed lightly, but I could tell she was still nervous.
She finally said. “I have a bad feeling about this, though I cannot say why, exactly. You describe her as timid, and your descriptions of her activities suggest a certain appreciation for consistency.”
“Yes,” I answered, still not understanding.
“She had a tremendous change when her father died, then another when she went to school, then another when she left, then another when she went to Ramsgate. She built up the habit of writing to you when a small child, and I doubt just being busy with watercolours or pianoforte would distract her from a habit of years.”
“I must submit to your superior understanding of young ladies. You are an expert on the subject, while I am an ignoramus.”
She thought about it a moment more, and I could see her getting more and more agitated.
“At the risk of displaying early onset of my mother’s nervousness—” she said, then took a deep breath, stared at me hard, and spoke emphatically.
“Go to her, Mr Jones! Go to her today! Right now! If nothing is amiss, I will take credit for gifting you with an extra week in your sister’s company, and she will remember it for years. If something is amiss—”
She need say no more because I was abruptly terrified. I jumped up to leave and hurriedly executed our tradition.
“Next year, Miss Smith?”
“Same time, same place, Mr Jones!”
I had almost made it to the door when she called me back momentarily. “Mr Jones!”
She looked even more nervous than she had when she handed my grandfather’s pistols over at fourteen, but then she looked just as resolute.
“I will be near my majority next year. If you’ve no objections, I would like to tell you my real name then.”
I was so caught up with my sister’s danger that I did not think through all the implications, but had I a fortnight to think, I would have said the same.
“It will be my pleasure to reciprocate, and get to truly know you, Miss Smith… publicly.”
“Until next year, Mr Jones.”
“Au revoir, Miss Smith.”