to disentangle myself.
“Hetty!” I heard my cousin call from outside my door. I had hardly recovered myself and pushed Allenham’s letter into the pocket of my gown before she threw open the door. She too was in possession of a letter. I looked with a flush of shame at the pages she held.
“He is coming and he says he has a question of great importance he wishes to ask me!” she exclaimed in a shriek, her cheeks as pink as roses. “Oh Hetty!” she squealed, grabbing me by the hands and twirling me about my room. “I shall be Lady Catherine Allenham! I think I shall die of happiness!”
“Oh cousin!” I exclaimed as she pulled me into an embrace. “What a joyful day this is!” I tried to muster as much enthusiasm as I could. Looking at her features dancing with delight, her broad smile and high arched eyebrows, knowing that she enjoyed a genuine contentment at this, was, I suppose, all the confirmation I required that Allenham’s plan was a noble one, and that I had nothing to fear from the matter. It would all be for the best.
Yet still, knowing the Baron was on his way, comprehending what was about to transpire, I could not entirely suppress a feeling of dread. I was too young to recognize the sensations of anxiety, for this was what it was. I had not seen him since our time in Bath and I yearned, positively hungered to have him stand before me; but, at the same time, my desire repulsed me: it seemed sinful, deceptive, dishonest. I wondered how I might feel in his presence, now that I knew his emotions and he had guessed at mine. What occurs when love is not spoken of or acknowledged? I had only the foolish plots of the novels my cousin and I had read to inform me, where knights and heroines donned disguises and met by moonlight in fragrant gardens. I could not imagine myself engaged in such shameful subterfuge.
I worried what might happen when Allenham and I met. Would my aunt and uncle be able to read my heart in my expression? Would Lady Catherine guess? Perhaps I should take to my bed and feign illness, I thought. But that would not do. It might force Allenham to seek me out. I could not imagine a way out of this conundrum. I must bear it with strength and courage, as I would have to for the rest of my life.
In the few days before Allenham’s arrival, my behaviour must have appeared strange to my cousin. While she crackled with high spirits, rushing between rooms in a fit of constant giggles, or breaking into song at every turn, I, by contrast, grew more quiet than usual.
One afternoon, as I lay upon the sofa with a volume of Mr. Pope’s poetry, Lady Catherine threw herself down beside me. She crunchedher nose and made a silly face, “Oh serious, serious Hetty,” she teased, attempting to shut my book. “Why so downcast, cousin?”
“But I am not downcast,” I objected.
“You are! And I am so happy, and you are so glum…” said she, nuzzling against me like a playful puppy. Her expression was one of mock sympathy. She was accomplished at that look. “Are you sad that I am to be wed and you are not?”
“No, quite the contrary, I am most happy for you,” I said. She inspected my face, not convinced.
“This is the reason, I think. You are sad that I am to be wed and you shall be a spinster.”
I sighed and shut my book.
“You cannot deny it. I see the look of melancholy in your eyes, Hetty. I do. But you must not despair. Not when the Reverend Pease has been paying you such notice.”
This, reader, was a most cutting remark, one that was intended to provoke rather than to soothe. Now, I must tell you something of the Reverend John Pease, to whom she referred.
I dare say that there are some men put upon this earth who will never appear in the least bit attractive to young, unmarried ladies, no matter how rich or well connected they are. The Reverend John Pease was one such man, but to worsen matters he was neither rich nor from a tolerable family. He was the rector at St.
“Hetty!” I heard my cousin call from outside my door. I had hardly recovered myself and pushed Allenham’s letter into the pocket of my gown before she threw open the door. She too was in possession of a letter. I looked with a flush of shame at the pages she held.
“He is coming and he says he has a question of great importance he wishes to ask me!” she exclaimed in a shriek, her cheeks as pink as roses. “Oh Hetty!” she squealed, grabbing me by the hands and twirling me about my room. “I shall be Lady Catherine Allenham! I think I shall die of happiness!”
“Oh cousin!” I exclaimed as she pulled me into an embrace. “What a joyful day this is!” I tried to muster as much enthusiasm as I could. Looking at her features dancing with delight, her broad smile and high arched eyebrows, knowing that she enjoyed a genuine contentment at this, was, I suppose, all the confirmation I required that Allenham’s plan was a noble one, and that I had nothing to fear from the matter. It would all be for the best.
Yet still, knowing the Baron was on his way, comprehending what was about to transpire, I could not entirely suppress a feeling of dread. I was too young to recognize the sensations of anxiety, for this was what it was. I had not seen him since our time in Bath and I yearned, positively hungered to have him stand before me; but, at the same time, my desire repulsed me: it seemed sinful, deceptive, dishonest. I wondered how I might feel in his presence, now that I knew his emotions and he had guessed at mine. What occurs when love is not spoken of or acknowledged? I had only the foolish plots of the novels my cousin and I had read to inform me, where knights and heroines donned disguises and met by moonlight in fragrant gardens. I could not imagine myself engaged in such shameful subterfuge.
I worried what might happen when Allenham and I met. Would my aunt and uncle be able to read my heart in my expression? Would Lady Catherine guess? Perhaps I should take to my bed and feign illness, I thought. But that would not do. It might force Allenham to seek me out. I could not imagine a way out of this conundrum. I must bear it with strength and courage, as I would have to for the rest of my life.
In the few days before Allenham’s arrival, my behaviour must have appeared strange to my cousin. While she crackled with high spirits, rushing between rooms in a fit of constant giggles, or breaking into song at every turn, I, by contrast, grew more quiet than usual.
One afternoon, as I lay upon the sofa with a volume of Mr. Pope’s poetry, Lady Catherine threw herself down beside me. She crunchedher nose and made a silly face, “Oh serious, serious Hetty,” she teased, attempting to shut my book. “Why so downcast, cousin?”
“But I am not downcast,” I objected.
“You are! And I am so happy, and you are so glum…” said she, nuzzling against me like a playful puppy. Her expression was one of mock sympathy. She was accomplished at that look. “Are you sad that I am to be wed and you are not?”
“No, quite the contrary, I am most happy for you,” I said. She inspected my face, not convinced.
“This is the reason, I think. You are sad that I am to be wed and you shall be a spinster.”
I sighed and shut my book.
“You cannot deny it. I see the look of melancholy in your eyes, Hetty. I do. But you must not despair. Not when the Reverend Pease has been paying you such notice.”
This, reader, was a most cutting remark, one that was intended to provoke rather than to soothe. Now, I must tell you something of the Reverend John Pease, to whom she referred.
I dare say that there are some men put upon this earth who will never appear in the least bit attractive to young, unmarried ladies, no matter how rich or well connected they are. The Reverend John Pease was one such man, but to worsen matters he was neither rich nor from a tolerable family. He was the rector at St.
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