A Hundred Visions and Revisions - Chapter Nine
As some of you might have noticed, I decided to remove the flock from the story. Let's hope it goes well. ;)
This is another almost wholly rewritten chapter. It's a little short, but I think it serves better as a chapter than a scene, especially since so much will occur in the next one. Remember when I said we would get more of William's POV? Well, here it is. I hope you guys enjoy it.
Nine
The time after dinner was for sitting in the parlor, quietly chatting. It had always been this way, ever since William could remember. Even on the estate, even when he was very small, even before his father died, the routine never varied. Now was no different, except there was also Miss Summers.
This evening she sat on an ottoman at his mother's feet, helping her wind yarn. Regardless of the disparity in their ages, the two of them conversed in a way he could never have imagined doing: cozily and completely without reserve, their soft words occasionally punctuated with laughter.
They were not excluding him intentionally. Quite the opposite, for several times his mother attempted to draw him out. But he would not be drawn out-could not be, even if he wanted. He was not adept at conversation even at the best of times. In mixed company-particularly in the company of a beautiful woman-the problem only grew worse.
When he was seven years old, he had developed a stammer. There was no rhyme or reason to it; it was not pathological. He was merely shy, a child who grew nervous when he discovered himself to be the center of attention. Whenever he felt especially tense, he would stumble over his words. It did not happen all the time. Doubtless, he would have grown out of the habit altogether had he been let alone. However, he attended Eton at the age of twelve, and at Eton, no one was let alone. During lectures the House Master and tutors called on him with unfailing regularity, and they soon grew impatient with his halting responses. They claimed he distracted the rest of the students, who of course felt it necessary to laugh whenever he faltered in his recitations. They said he was looking for attention.
Attention he got. Each evening during the quiet hour one of the tutors would drill him in his elocution, and if he failed to perform properly, as he invariably did, he received a sound birching. This cycle continued for approximately half a year, until he finally learned to control himself.
The consensus amongst the tutors was that they had taught him to speak properly, and they offered each other no end of congratulations on their success. However, the fact of the matter was, what they really taught him was not to speak at all. It was true that under their tutelage, he learned to read aloud before his class, and answer questions smoothly and without hesitation; but this was through sheer force of will. Privately, he considered the stammer as bad as ever, and he lived in such terror of it he preferred to hold his tongue altogether. At home, with his mother and their servants, he spoke easily and completely without defect; but put him in a group of strangers-or worse still, with a specific set of his peers-and he became practically tongue-tied.
Of course, it was not Miss Summers' fault he found it so difficult to engage her. She had been nothing if not polite to him. It was merely his own stupid cowardice that kept him apart now, an exile of his own silence.
Yet if he could not speak, he could still look. He tried to remain gentlemanly; he tried not to stare at her. He worked so hard at it that he felt physically exhausted from the effort. But, in the end, it was no good. His eyes stubbornly refused to obey his brain, and they repeatedly drifted over to where she sat.
Although she laughed with his mother as usual, William thought she seemed rather discontented this evening. She often seemed so, although he never knew why. With an ignorance typical of his sex, he assumed pretty clothes and a bit of pocket money was enough to make any woman happy, and it puzzled him when they did not. He wanted Miss Summers to be happy. He wanted to please her. Because, inasmuch as he tried to tell himself otherwise, he knew she was not a mere servant. The peculiar set of circumstances that brought her here proved that. And there was something about her, something extraordinary. Something that brought him to his knees the moment he had first laid eyes on her. And he wanted, so badly, to have-
Her.
He toyed with the book in his hands, nervously flipping pages until he finally gave himself a paper cut. Were his affections really that fickle, that meaningless? For months now he had been convinced that what he felt for Cecily Underwood was love. He had carried his torch and laid flowers at her altar with a devotion so single-minded it left little room for anything else. He had, according to some, made an utter fool of himself in his pursuit of her. How could all that change so quickly? How could his devotion to Miss Underwood disappear the moment he rested his eyes upon that ill-mannered little American? It seemed shameful. Cecily was well bred, she was well educated for a woman, and she had been born into the same station in life as he. They were alike in many ways. He and Miss Summers had nothing at all in common; no one could be less like him than she. He told himself that it would be a very poor match indeed, even if she were willing to have him. Yet the more he tried to deny his attraction, the stronger it became. It was her very unlikeness that drew him.
What was she thinking as she sat there at his mother's feet, her glazed eyes fixed upon her hands? Was she reliving memories of her deceased loved ones? Was it grief that so often clouded those unfathomable green eyes? He shouldn’t wonder. That first morning home, when she followed him into the library to talk, she had looked so miserable as she spoke of her mother’s passing. She hadn’t mentioned her father. He must have been longer gone, her sorrow for him assuaged by time. But both of them dead, and young Miss Summers left with no one.
His heart cramped a little at that, because it was a feeling he knew only too well. To be alone. He had his mother, of course, but no one else. Not a sibling or a cousin, not a father or a friend. His mother’s passing would leave him in solitude, and he dreaded that almost as much as her death itself. To have no one waiting for him to come home in the evenings, no one to talk to him, no one to care about him...the loneliness of such an existence was almost too dreadful to contemplate.
He had long dreamed of having a wife. A wife and a little child. Both of them would be small and soft and deliciously his. They would love him and need him. He would take care of them. He wanted someone to take care of, someone to protect. The greater part of his life had been spent doing that for his mother and it had made him a nurturer both by inclination and by necessity. Perhaps that, as much as anything, had drawn him to Miss Summers. She was so young, so diminutive, so lost. He wanted to cradle her to him, to shelter her from the harshness of the world and remove the terrible look of sadness that sometimes marked her features.
Sometimes, when she looked like that, it was all he could do not to leap out of his chair and go to her. He had held her hand once, so warm and smooth, the bones as delicate as a bird’s, and he dreamt of holding it again. He would fold it between both of his own and stroke his thumbs along the ridges of her small knuckles. He would tell her not to be afraid, not to feel sorrow, because he was there, and he would make it all right. He would have done anything to be the man who could make it all right for her.
Of course, he knew that she could never return his admiration. Women were never interested in him. He had always done his best, dressing well and using good manners. He tried to make himself attractive to them. Yet it seemed that on the rare occasions he managed to gather the courage to speak with one, she always deterred him with poorly concealed scorn. He supposed he could not blame them. What woman would want a stammering fool for a lover? Still, it hurt to think that he should try so hard and not succeed. He never would succeed, not with a woman as lovely as Miss Summers. He thought that if he had one ounce of sense, he would push the notion of it from his mind.
But he couldn’t.
Even with the depressing certainty that she disliked him, he could not stop himself from wanting, hoping-
Well, it would have been as impossible to stop that, as it would be to stop the tide. As it would be not to look at her now.
Mercifully, her attention remained focused on her work, and she did not see the way his lonely gaze traveled along the line of her neck, the curve of her jaw, the glint of lamplight on her hair. That beautiful long hair. She always kept it pinned up, as a lady should, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it looked like when it lay loose and flowing. He could imagine stroking it, the silky strands slipping through his fingers like water. The smell of her skin. Her mouth-
Ashamed of himself for even thinking of such things, he turned back to his book guiltily, determined not to look at her again.
It was no good. Only a moment later, his lifted his eyes. He could feel his mother watching him, no doubt highly amused by his foolishness, but he couldn’t drag his gaze away. He couldn't stop.
Time passed-a minute, an hour, a lifetime-and his mother put away her knitting. With a wry glance at her son that he did not see, she excused herself to use the powder room.
There was a maid lighting the lamps, so he and Miss Summers weren't quite alone, but they were near enough to it to make him uneasy. Without his mother as a buffer, William knew the burden of conversation must fall to him, and how on earth could he manage it?
Blushing to the very tips of his ears, he stared at his book and tried to think of something to say.
He needn't have worried. At length, Miss Summers took it upon herself to break the silence.
"So, what are you reading?" she asked.
He looked up, startled to find her eyes upon him.
"I-I'm sorry?"
"Your book. I was just wondering what it's called."
"Oh-" He held out the volume and she rose to take it.
"Far from the Madding Crowd," she read aloud, with a glance at the cover. "Is it any good?"
"Yes, quite. I-I have read it before, so if you would care to take it..." He would have given her almost anything.
"What is it about?" she asked, and William-stammering, breathless-contrived to tell her a little about the plot. It was the first conversation they ever had that was not about his mother's health, and if it was halting and rather awkward, he did not count it an outright failure. At least she seemed to be interested.
If only she weren't so near! If only she weren't standing over him like that, the hem of her skirts just brushing his knee. He felt trapped, overwhelmed by the conflicting desire to move away and to draw her closer. It certainly did not make maintaining a dialogue any easier.
Did she have any idea what her proximity was doing to him? He had a sinking feeling that she did, for there was a rather knowing expression in her eyes. She took a breath and seemed to spend a long moment gathering her resolve. Then she placed a hand upon his shoulder.
"Sp-Wi-Mr. Hartley," her voice was trembling with nerves and very low. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course. Please." Just three words. He couldn't have managed more than that, not with her touching him. Still, it seemed enough to satisfy her.
"I need to ask you for a favor." She swallowed and leaned down. He could feel her breath against his forehead; her voice dropped to a whisper. "You can say no if you want. Well, obviously, you can say no. It's just that I-"
He wouldn't have said no. Regardless of what she was asking, he knew he could never say no.
"What is it you-"
"I need some money."
It was as if she had dumped an ice water bath over him. That closeness and those soft words, and all along what she wanted was-
"Money?"
"Not a lot," she said quickly. "I'm not asking for a loan, just an advance on next month's pay. I don't even want the whole amount. All I need is fifteen shillings."
Silence. He couldn't have said a word had he tried.
Her gaze slid away from him and fixed upon the wall. "My sister is sick. In America. I need the money to send to her."
The minute hesitation before she said this told him it was a lie, but he did not attempt to confront her in the matter. Instead, he slowly reached into his jacket for his pocketbook.
As he withdrew it, Miss Summers favored him with what might have been the first genuine smile of their acquaintanceship. It was a beautiful smile, and happy. It looked hopeful.
It did not make him feel better.
Previous
This is another almost wholly rewritten chapter. It's a little short, but I think it serves better as a chapter than a scene, especially since so much will occur in the next one. Remember when I said we would get more of William's POV? Well, here it is. I hope you guys enjoy it.
Nine
The time after dinner was for sitting in the parlor, quietly chatting. It had always been this way, ever since William could remember. Even on the estate, even when he was very small, even before his father died, the routine never varied. Now was no different, except there was also Miss Summers.
This evening she sat on an ottoman at his mother's feet, helping her wind yarn. Regardless of the disparity in their ages, the two of them conversed in a way he could never have imagined doing: cozily and completely without reserve, their soft words occasionally punctuated with laughter.
They were not excluding him intentionally. Quite the opposite, for several times his mother attempted to draw him out. But he would not be drawn out-could not be, even if he wanted. He was not adept at conversation even at the best of times. In mixed company-particularly in the company of a beautiful woman-the problem only grew worse.
When he was seven years old, he had developed a stammer. There was no rhyme or reason to it; it was not pathological. He was merely shy, a child who grew nervous when he discovered himself to be the center of attention. Whenever he felt especially tense, he would stumble over his words. It did not happen all the time. Doubtless, he would have grown out of the habit altogether had he been let alone. However, he attended Eton at the age of twelve, and at Eton, no one was let alone. During lectures the House Master and tutors called on him with unfailing regularity, and they soon grew impatient with his halting responses. They claimed he distracted the rest of the students, who of course felt it necessary to laugh whenever he faltered in his recitations. They said he was looking for attention.
Attention he got. Each evening during the quiet hour one of the tutors would drill him in his elocution, and if he failed to perform properly, as he invariably did, he received a sound birching. This cycle continued for approximately half a year, until he finally learned to control himself.
The consensus amongst the tutors was that they had taught him to speak properly, and they offered each other no end of congratulations on their success. However, the fact of the matter was, what they really taught him was not to speak at all. It was true that under their tutelage, he learned to read aloud before his class, and answer questions smoothly and without hesitation; but this was through sheer force of will. Privately, he considered the stammer as bad as ever, and he lived in such terror of it he preferred to hold his tongue altogether. At home, with his mother and their servants, he spoke easily and completely without defect; but put him in a group of strangers-or worse still, with a specific set of his peers-and he became practically tongue-tied.
Of course, it was not Miss Summers' fault he found it so difficult to engage her. She had been nothing if not polite to him. It was merely his own stupid cowardice that kept him apart now, an exile of his own silence.
Yet if he could not speak, he could still look. He tried to remain gentlemanly; he tried not to stare at her. He worked so hard at it that he felt physically exhausted from the effort. But, in the end, it was no good. His eyes stubbornly refused to obey his brain, and they repeatedly drifted over to where she sat.
Although she laughed with his mother as usual, William thought she seemed rather discontented this evening. She often seemed so, although he never knew why. With an ignorance typical of his sex, he assumed pretty clothes and a bit of pocket money was enough to make any woman happy, and it puzzled him when they did not. He wanted Miss Summers to be happy. He wanted to please her. Because, inasmuch as he tried to tell himself otherwise, he knew she was not a mere servant. The peculiar set of circumstances that brought her here proved that. And there was something about her, something extraordinary. Something that brought him to his knees the moment he had first laid eyes on her. And he wanted, so badly, to have-
Her.
He toyed with the book in his hands, nervously flipping pages until he finally gave himself a paper cut. Were his affections really that fickle, that meaningless? For months now he had been convinced that what he felt for Cecily Underwood was love. He had carried his torch and laid flowers at her altar with a devotion so single-minded it left little room for anything else. He had, according to some, made an utter fool of himself in his pursuit of her. How could all that change so quickly? How could his devotion to Miss Underwood disappear the moment he rested his eyes upon that ill-mannered little American? It seemed shameful. Cecily was well bred, she was well educated for a woman, and she had been born into the same station in life as he. They were alike in many ways. He and Miss Summers had nothing at all in common; no one could be less like him than she. He told himself that it would be a very poor match indeed, even if she were willing to have him. Yet the more he tried to deny his attraction, the stronger it became. It was her very unlikeness that drew him.
What was she thinking as she sat there at his mother's feet, her glazed eyes fixed upon her hands? Was she reliving memories of her deceased loved ones? Was it grief that so often clouded those unfathomable green eyes? He shouldn’t wonder. That first morning home, when she followed him into the library to talk, she had looked so miserable as she spoke of her mother’s passing. She hadn’t mentioned her father. He must have been longer gone, her sorrow for him assuaged by time. But both of them dead, and young Miss Summers left with no one.
His heart cramped a little at that, because it was a feeling he knew only too well. To be alone. He had his mother, of course, but no one else. Not a sibling or a cousin, not a father or a friend. His mother’s passing would leave him in solitude, and he dreaded that almost as much as her death itself. To have no one waiting for him to come home in the evenings, no one to talk to him, no one to care about him...the loneliness of such an existence was almost too dreadful to contemplate.
He had long dreamed of having a wife. A wife and a little child. Both of them would be small and soft and deliciously his. They would love him and need him. He would take care of them. He wanted someone to take care of, someone to protect. The greater part of his life had been spent doing that for his mother and it had made him a nurturer both by inclination and by necessity. Perhaps that, as much as anything, had drawn him to Miss Summers. She was so young, so diminutive, so lost. He wanted to cradle her to him, to shelter her from the harshness of the world and remove the terrible look of sadness that sometimes marked her features.
Sometimes, when she looked like that, it was all he could do not to leap out of his chair and go to her. He had held her hand once, so warm and smooth, the bones as delicate as a bird’s, and he dreamt of holding it again. He would fold it between both of his own and stroke his thumbs along the ridges of her small knuckles. He would tell her not to be afraid, not to feel sorrow, because he was there, and he would make it all right. He would have done anything to be the man who could make it all right for her.
Of course, he knew that she could never return his admiration. Women were never interested in him. He had always done his best, dressing well and using good manners. He tried to make himself attractive to them. Yet it seemed that on the rare occasions he managed to gather the courage to speak with one, she always deterred him with poorly concealed scorn. He supposed he could not blame them. What woman would want a stammering fool for a lover? Still, it hurt to think that he should try so hard and not succeed. He never would succeed, not with a woman as lovely as Miss Summers. He thought that if he had one ounce of sense, he would push the notion of it from his mind.
But he couldn’t.
Even with the depressing certainty that she disliked him, he could not stop himself from wanting, hoping-
Well, it would have been as impossible to stop that, as it would be to stop the tide. As it would be not to look at her now.
Mercifully, her attention remained focused on her work, and she did not see the way his lonely gaze traveled along the line of her neck, the curve of her jaw, the glint of lamplight on her hair. That beautiful long hair. She always kept it pinned up, as a lady should, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it looked like when it lay loose and flowing. He could imagine stroking it, the silky strands slipping through his fingers like water. The smell of her skin. Her mouth-
Ashamed of himself for even thinking of such things, he turned back to his book guiltily, determined not to look at her again.
It was no good. Only a moment later, his lifted his eyes. He could feel his mother watching him, no doubt highly amused by his foolishness, but he couldn’t drag his gaze away. He couldn't stop.
Time passed-a minute, an hour, a lifetime-and his mother put away her knitting. With a wry glance at her son that he did not see, she excused herself to use the powder room.
There was a maid lighting the lamps, so he and Miss Summers weren't quite alone, but they were near enough to it to make him uneasy. Without his mother as a buffer, William knew the burden of conversation must fall to him, and how on earth could he manage it?
Blushing to the very tips of his ears, he stared at his book and tried to think of something to say.
He needn't have worried. At length, Miss Summers took it upon herself to break the silence.
"So, what are you reading?" she asked.
He looked up, startled to find her eyes upon him.
"I-I'm sorry?"
"Your book. I was just wondering what it's called."
"Oh-" He held out the volume and she rose to take it.
"Far from the Madding Crowd," she read aloud, with a glance at the cover. "Is it any good?"
"Yes, quite. I-I have read it before, so if you would care to take it..." He would have given her almost anything.
"What is it about?" she asked, and William-stammering, breathless-contrived to tell her a little about the plot. It was the first conversation they ever had that was not about his mother's health, and if it was halting and rather awkward, he did not count it an outright failure. At least she seemed to be interested.
If only she weren't so near! If only she weren't standing over him like that, the hem of her skirts just brushing his knee. He felt trapped, overwhelmed by the conflicting desire to move away and to draw her closer. It certainly did not make maintaining a dialogue any easier.
Did she have any idea what her proximity was doing to him? He had a sinking feeling that she did, for there was a rather knowing expression in her eyes. She took a breath and seemed to spend a long moment gathering her resolve. Then she placed a hand upon his shoulder.
"Sp-Wi-Mr. Hartley," her voice was trembling with nerves and very low. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course. Please." Just three words. He couldn't have managed more than that, not with her touching him. Still, it seemed enough to satisfy her.
"I need to ask you for a favor." She swallowed and leaned down. He could feel her breath against his forehead; her voice dropped to a whisper. "You can say no if you want. Well, obviously, you can say no. It's just that I-"
He wouldn't have said no. Regardless of what she was asking, he knew he could never say no.
"What is it you-"
"I need some money."
It was as if she had dumped an ice water bath over him. That closeness and those soft words, and all along what she wanted was-
"Money?"
"Not a lot," she said quickly. "I'm not asking for a loan, just an advance on next month's pay. I don't even want the whole amount. All I need is fifteen shillings."
Silence. He couldn't have said a word had he tried.
Her gaze slid away from him and fixed upon the wall. "My sister is sick. In America. I need the money to send to her."
The minute hesitation before she said this told him it was a lie, but he did not attempt to confront her in the matter. Instead, he slowly reached into his jacket for his pocketbook.
As he withdrew it, Miss Summers favored him with what might have been the first genuine smile of their acquaintanceship. It was a beautiful smile, and happy. It looked hopeful.
It did not make him feel better.
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