Chapter 40 #6
Edmund looked up when I entered. His face was bright with the particular brightness of a person who does not fully understand what is happening but who has been told, in simple terms, that the thing that is happening is not a cause for distress, and the telling had been done by Dorothea, because I had not been able to do it myself, and the inability was not a failure of nerve but a failure of vocabulary, because the words that would explain to Edmund, in terms he could understand, that his sister was leaving and would not return were words that I did not possess, because the possession of such words required an emotional investment in the departure that I did not have and could not simulate with the necessary conviction, and the simulation, in this case, would have been detected by Dorothea, and the detection would have produced complications that I was not prepared to manage.
"Cecilia," he said, and his voice was happy, because Edmund was always happy in the mornings, and the happiness was the happiness of a person who does not carry the weight of the future, and the absence of the weight was, I acknowledged, the thing that made his happiness possible, and the possibility of happiness was the thing that I had arranged for, and the arranging was the last act of the strategic self, and the lastness of the act gave it a quality of finality that was both satisfying and unsettling, because the strategic self, for all its flaws, had been the instrument of my survival, and the retirement of the instrument was the retirement of the self that had wielded it, and the retirement was, in its own way, a form of death, and the death was a thing that I could not feel but that I could recognise, and the recognition was the weight that I would carry.
"Good morning, Edmund," I said, and the words were warm, and the warmth was performed, because the performance of warmth toward Edmund was the one performance I would not abandon, because the abandonment of it would leave him with nothing, and the nothing was the thing I could not permit, and the permission was the thing I had never given and would never give, because Edmund was mine, and the possession was the one truth of my life that would survive the surrender of everything else.
"Are you going on your journey today?" he asked, and the question was the same question he had asked before, and the constancy of the question told me that Dorothea had prepared him with the same simple explanation that I had rehearsed — I am going on a long journey, and you will stay here with Dorothea, who will take care of you — and the rehearsal had been effective, because Edmund had incorporated the explanation into his understanding of the world without distress, because Edmund incorporated everything into his understanding without distress, and the incorporation was the thing that made him both the most vulnerable and the most resilient person I had ever known.
"Yes," I said. "I am going today."
"Will you come back?"
The question was simple and direct and devastating, and the devastation was not in the content of the question but in the quality of the asking, because the asking was the asking of a person who expected the answer to be yes, because in Edmund's experience, people who went away always came back, and the expectation was a thing that I could not confirm and could not deny, because the confirmation would be a lie and the denial would produce distress, and the choice between lying and distressing was a choice that I had faced a thousand times in my dealings with Edmund and that I had always resolved in favour of the lie, because the lie was kinder, and kindness, toward Edmund, was the one form of moral behaviour that my nature permitted.
"I will write to you," I said, and the words were not an answer to his question but they were an answer of a kind, because the writing was the thing that the Home Office had permitted, and the permission was a concession that I had extracted during the negotiation, and the extraction was, I acknowledged, the only genuinely altruistic act of my adult life, because the writing to Edmund would produce, in me, a sensation that was not pleasure and not satisfaction and not the fulfilment of duty but was something adjacent to all three, a faint, cool recognition that a person for whom I felt not love but possessive attachment would know that I had not forgotten him, and the knowing would give him comfort, and the comfort was the thing that mattered, and the mattering was the thing that I could not explain and could not justify and could not categorise within the framework of my strategic understanding, but which existed nonetheless, and the existence was the thing that I would carry with me.
I touched his hand. The hand was warm and familiar and utterly without suspicion, and the suspicionlessness of it was the thing that made the touching possible, because the touching of a hand that trusted you was a different thing from the touching of a hand that feared you, and the difference was the difference between possession and predation, and the possession was the thing I claimed and the predation was the thing I denied, and the denial was the last lie of a life built on lies, and the lie was beautiful and necessary and entirely without merit, and the meritlessness of it did not diminish its necessity, because the necessity was the necessity of a person who is leaving and who wishes to leave behind a memory that is not entirely terrible.
Dorothea rose from her position beside the bed and stood, and she was looking at me with an expression that I had never seen on her face before, an expression that combined something that might have been compassion with something that was certainly understanding, and the combination was unsettling, because Dorothea's understanding of me was the understanding of a woman who had served me for four years and who had, in that time, observed the things that I had believed to be invisible, and the observation had produced, in her, a knowledge of my nature that was more complete than the knowledge of any other living person, with the possible exception of Sebastian, and the completeness of her knowledge was the thing that made her the most dangerous person in my world and the most essential person in Edmund's, and the combination of danger and essentiality was the thing that had determined her role in the arrangements that would follow my departure.
She curtsied. The curtsy was slight and precise and entirely without warmth, and the absence of warmth was appropriate, because warmth between us had never existed and would never exist, and the pretence of warmth would have been an insult to the understanding that we shared, and the understanding was the thing that made the relationship functional, because the relationship was not a friendship and not a partnership and not any of the things that human relationships are supposed to be, but was simply an arrangement, a practical, mutually beneficial arrangement in which I provided employment and she provided service, and the service had included, among other things, the care of my brother, and the care was the thing that I was now entrusting to her permanently, and the permanence of the trust was the thing that required the acknowledgment that passed between us in the moment of the curtsy, and the acknowledgment was the acknowledgment that I was handing over the most precious thing in my possession to a woman who was not my friend and not my ally and not my equal but who was, in this specific and limited respect, the best person for the task, and the best was the thing that Edmund deserved, and the deserving was the thing that I could not provide and was, at this final moment, arranging for.
"Mrs. Crewe," I said, and the use of the formal title was deliberate, because the formality communicated respect, and the respect was genuine, because Dorothea had earned it, and the earning of my respect was a thing that very few people in my experience had accomplished, because my respect was not granted on the basis of social position or professional achievement or personal charm but on the basis of demonstrated competence in the care of Edmund, and the demonstrated competence was the only standard by which I measured the value of a human being, and the measurement was, I acknowledged, the thing that separated me from other people, because other people measured value by the capacity for emotion, and the capacity for emotion was the one measurement that I could not make.
"Your brother will be well cared for," she said, and the words were quiet and certain and entirely without the quality of reassurance that usually accompanies such statements, because Dorothea did not deal in reassurance, she dealt in facts, and the fact that she would care for Edmund was a fact that was more reliable than any promise, because Dorothea's reliability was not a function of oath or obligation but a function of nature, and the nature was the nature of a person who genuinely cared, and the caring was the thing that I could not provide and that she could, and the provision was the thing that I was paying for, and the paying was the last financial transaction of my life as a woman of property, and the life that awaited me was a life of modest means and quiet obscurity, and the modesty and the obscurity were the things that I had earned, and the earning was the thing that I would carry with me onto the ship.