Far From The Cliffs of Dover

Chapters 1 &2

I

Mister, Misses, & Miss Williams

In the early part of the morning, when the dew was settled in droplets upon the grass and the birds were singing cheerful melodies to welcome spring, the young Ms. Williams lingered through the gardens of the estate, caressing her favorite blossoms as she passed. Her eyes were pale blue as the early morning sky was, her chestnut hair carefully pinned behind, and her walk as gentle as the breeze that carried through the garden the smell of roses.

It was no secret to the world that Ms. Williams was an odd little thing who excelled magnificently at all which made a young woman of her birth and nature accomplished, and yet shunned with equal ferocity all which she was prevailed upon to accomplish. It was only in her garden, music, and the written word that she found serenity and felicity. These two hobbies she could and would allow to dominate her every waking moment, if circumstances would allow and, in most cases, it did. After all, there was little of consequence to occupy Ms. Florence William’s thoughts beyond her own fancies, of which there were plenty, but none so dear as the aforementioned. That suited her father, Mr. Williams, very poorly, as he had grown tired of frivolousness, which he had in spades thanks to the flouncy nature of Mrs. Williams, whose primary occupation in her youth was to find the prettiest gowns. In her womanhood, her interests had expanded minutely, branching further into the study of gardens, the decorating of her only daughter, which still centered around fine gowns, and the collecting of other miscellaneous finery. It was the sort of ignorance that stemmed not from innocence but from indifference and kept the woman happily fretting day in and day out, for there was not so much more pleasing to her than a fuss about something. Now she sought only one thing more for herself, and that was a son-in-law. A charming one, hopefully of good means and manner, who would secure the family’s well-being in the case of disaster. This escapade appealed enough to young Florence, who thought it only natural to follow in the course of her other friends who too were seeking matrimony, but was seldom enticed enough by any gentleman to hold her interest for very long. While there were plenty of gentlemen in the area, none seemed so fine as the sonatas of Mozart or Beethoven, nor so romantic as the poetry of Shakespeare, and her mind quickly flittered from one to the next with little seriousness at all and little encouragement to her suitors. This frustrated Mrs. Williams to no end, which in turn amused Mr. Williams greatly. Beyond amused, however, he was quite pleased because, if his daughter would have little ambition, at least let her have a little sense, he reasoned. And his reasoning was indeed sound for independent men and doting fathers, but less so when put into practice by the women who aspired to sail their own ship in the turbulent waters of a man’s world. This knowledge was what vexed Mrs. Williams constantly and young Florence not at all, for, she reasoned, at least she could make her father proud in this one thing, and a suitable match was bound to be made before she was in any real danger of spinstership.

“Florence, dear, please do come in,” called her mother from the upper window, “lest you catch a cold or ruin your hem. Look at it there- trailing in the mud.”

“Yes, mother,” she replied, although she made no turn from her path that she was following. She did intend to come in, but only once the sun was high and the birds had slowed the singing of their tune to sporadic bursts of melody, isolated notes in the humming of the breeze.

“Do not forget that Ms. Merriweather will arrive shortly.”

“I have not forgotten, Mother. Thank you.” Her mother said nothing else. It was only upon completing her turn about the garden that she went inside, her hem damp but not spoiled, her eyes bright and in no way focused. One of the servants shuffled quickly by with the wash, another with the potatoes, but no need for productivity hastened her step this morning. Florence glided into the library and perused the books with the same carefree attitude in which she observed the garden.

“What shall you read today, daughter,” came the question from an unmoving Mr. Williams. He was so still that if he did not speak then perhaps one would think him made of wood, along with the rest of the tables and chairs that decorated the room so handsomely.

“I am thinking of some fine poetry,” replied the young girl, her large indigo eyes gliding over the hard spines of books. “Or perhaps an epic.”

Her father scoffed. “When you are so bright you waste your thinking on such trivial pursuits, my dear daughter. I had rather hoped for a son with whom I could discuss the more serious things of life. When you turned out to be so smart I thought that perhaps I would have my way despite it all. And then you are cursed with this love of poetry.

“I thank you, dear father,” she answered, stopping before a gilded collection that was one of her particular favorites, “But I don’t consider poetry to be a curse. And besides, my brightness is rather wasted on a woman, is it not? For what can I do with it? Should I conduct your business for you?”

“Perhaps you should,” he said. Florence turned her gaze upon him, poetry in hand, and discovered him to be in just the same position as before, the only difference perhaps in where his pen was upon the paper running over figures- and even that she could not be sure of, as it moved so little that it, too, seemed frozen in its place.

“Me? Why father, we would all be outcast. What a preposterous proposal.”

“Silly it does sound; I can not fain disagreement, but whyever should you not? Perhaps you could take a man’s name for your business ventures.” Finally he raised his eyes to her, squinting as he thought. “Perhaps ‘Frank’. You could pose as my nephew from far away who handles my contracts and documentation. And think, you would not even have to change your initials.”

“What a grand idea, Papa, but we could certainly be discovered, and then what would people say?”

“To riddance with people. They are all as silly as your novels. Nay, sillier still,” he replied, tapping his pencil on the table top with not a little agitation.

“You vex me, father, when you speak so of my love.”

He returned to his figures. “You are in no hurry to wed, either, so don’t speak to me of love. Now, dear daughter, you could at least let your eyes be of some service to me and tell me what this little figure is over here.”

Florence walked toward her father, resting her free hand on his back and squinting over the tiny writing. “Why do you write so small, Papa, if you yourself can not read it? That there is 35.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“Oh, and Ms. Merriweather is coming by today, so please do not bother to come out past lunch time or you shall be irritated again,” she said as she departed from the room. Her father grumbled something in the study where he remained and she settled herself upon the window seat, reading by the sunlight until her friend arrived.

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of their house just as she was finishing a ballad brimming with simile. She closed the book and left it to stain in the sunlight that poured in through the glass while she greeted her friend.

Ms. Merriweather was a good-natured sort of girl, sufficiently handsome and always in quest of a new diversion. Sometimes she was too serious and sometimes too silly, but at all times she was vexing to poor Mr. Williams, who found her flighty nature too unreliable and a poor influence on his daughter, who already had little desire to busy herself with things of consequence. Mrs. Williams, however, concluded that, as Florence was in want of nothing and would be better suited idle and entranced with the feminine frivolities that would attract a caring husband, and did nothing to dissuade the friendship which, she felt, was good for her silently-brooding daughter.

“My, how handsome you look, Margaret. This new gown is quite becoming.”

“Thank you, dear Florence,” answered Ms Margaret Merriweather pleasantly. “The fabric was so darling, I simply had to have something made up for the spring. Though I suppose I should have waited to reveal it at some assembly or other, I couldn’t bring myself to wait.”

“And why should you?” questioned young Florence. “It will be just as lovely then and it is only I who have seen it.” She took her friend’s arm and walked her towards the home.

“But that is not true, dear Florence,” said Ms. Merriweather. “And that is just the problem.”

“Well then, who else did you see?,” she inquired, mounting the steps. “Have you been to town this morning?”

“Not quite, but near enough. You see, as I was leaving my home, I happened to cross paths with Mrs. Allen, and who do you think was there in tow?

“Mrs. Eleanor Allen or Mrs. Loisa Allen?”

“I suppose I should have been more specific,” she replied with a sigh as she settled upon the sofa in the drawing room where the tea was already set to be served. “Mrs. Eleanor Allen.”

“I could not know. Please, do tell,” Florence pleaded, finally excited at the sound of some news.

“Well,” Margaret began as Florence poured her cup of tea. “It just so happens that Mrs. Eleanor and Mrs. Loisa have a brother in London- thank you, dear- and he has come out to visit his beloved sisters. Well this came as quite a shock to me, as I even did not know that they had a brother at all, let alone one who is a successful businessman. And... “ she paused briefly, partially to sip her tea and partially for dramatic affect.

“And?”

“And a father to a son about our age.”

“Was he there? Did you see him?”

“No, he was not.”

“Then how can you know?”

“I know because he was mentioned by Mrs. Allen who took kindly to the opportunity to brag about her family. Why she should brag so I am not sure, since it does not speak so well of her that they visit so rarely that her neighbours hardly know they exist. Yet perhaps she only thinks this to speak of how vastly important they are and not how vastly unimportant she is. I suppose that’s not so pretty of me to say, but it is true, my dear.” She paused for the first time in her dissertation and set her tea cup back down on the delicate china plate that accompanied it.

“Oh Florence, imagine. How nice it shall be to make a new acquaintance this year- and especially if he should be handsome.”

“Will you forget poor Mr. Roberts?” asked Florence of her friend, who had quite the look of daydream in her eyes.

“No, I suppose that I could not, even if I wished,” she replied, disattaching herself from her thoughts and folding her hands upon her lap. “But I dare say, to see your thoughts thus occupied by an eligible gentleman would please me greatly, for nothing should be more dear to me than to manage households together with you and talk of what only married women can.”

“Oh Margaret, you can’t mean to suggest that if you marry and I do not then you would remove me from your confidences?”

“Dear me, Florence, of course not. I only suggest that married women and single women have different concerns, that is all. Don’t fret- you will always be my favourite and most trusted confidant.”

Florence sipped her tea quietly and watched her friend. “Thank you, Margaret, and you mine. And that is why I must confess to you that while a husband could be some fun, I can’t imagine that having one would not grow tiresome.”

“Perhaps it will, Florence, but do you know what will prove to be even more tiresome? Watching all that is yours pass to your closest male kin with only the ability to hope for his kindness, always indebted merely because you are female and can not keep whatever is your own.”

Florence shifted uneasily in her seat. “It’s true. That would prove to be very tiresome. I do not wish to be obliged to anyone.”

Margaret nodded. “This is our world. Tiresome in comfort or tiresome in discomfort, take your choice.”

Florence’s mouth twisted, for she knew it all to be true. Her mother repeated the same sentiments often enough for her to feel their weight upon her heart already. “Do you think,” asked the girl of her friend, “that women will ever be free as men are?”

“For a certainty, Florence. Afterall, we’ve had many queens upon the throne already to be sure. But it will not happen in our lifetime.”

“Should we want it to?”

“Want what?”

“Want to be free as men, shackled to responsibility? If I were a man I could not be diverted so with poetry and music, after all.”

“We’d be much busier, to be sure, and that would be not the least bit appealing. But also we would have our own prospects independent of a husband’s, and I think that is, in the least, a trifle bit safer.”

“I agree,” said Florence. As an afterthought she sighed and added: “I suppose I shall have to make myself a wife.”

“Do not worry, dear, for every young and agreeable man is in need of one.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“So, as I was saying, before you interrupted me with this convoluted ideology, the family remains settled in London where the father conducts business but will be settling here for the summer when the university sets his son free from his studies- temporarily. Apparently they had all lived in Dover as his father is a merchant with the French. It’s a bit unpatriotic if I do say so myself, but can be forgiven since it is also quite clever. They all moved to the city for business not long ago, and this is all that I know.”

“I do wonder if they shall be at the ball in June.”

“Well they must be!” declared Margaret with enthusiasm. “How else will they become acquainted with the neighbourhood? It would be in very bad taste if they did not.”

“I suppose it should. My, Margaret, how decided you always are about such things.”

“Oh really now, I had the whole carriage ride to think these things over and you only a few seconds. And besides, your mind is always lost in poetry,” said she, picking up her tea cup and taking another sip. “I’d very much like to see the world the way you do, dear Florence, for it must be very fanciful.”

“My view is rather simple, actually, but very handsome, much like primrose… or buttercups.”

“I can’t say I would object to that.”

“Nor would I,” Florence agreed with a good-natured laugh.

II

Mr. Fairfield

The sunlight was drifting down gleefully through the treetops and rested warmly on the smiling faces of Ms. Merriweather and Ms. Williams, who was showing off the flourishing rose bush to her friend. It had surprised her with white roses. She had been promised red, but seeing how the white stood out so beautifully among the vibrant blue and yellow of larkspur and daylilies brought her such joy that she quite forgot to be frustrated at all. It was while they were doting over the saintly flowers that a voice disturbed the silence around them.

“Well how do you do, Ms. Merriweather? Ms. Williams?”

The Fairfields and Williams had long since been close friends and practically neighbours. The Fairfields were of good breed and good means, their family having owned property and holding London investments for many generations. The families’ paths had long been intertwined through society and business, and the elegant and charming Williams’ estate was not far down from the still grander Fairfield estate. The Williams had only one daughter, but the Fairfields had a half dozen children: Samuel, John, Martha, Eliza, Walter, and Caroline, in that order.

Coming towards them today was the eldest, Samuel Fairfield. He was a young man near the age of thirty, responsible, and rather above the company in the region. That particular truth, which he would never think of, let alone utter aloud, had kept him focused on self improvement and mixing in various companies, constantly occupied both in the country and in the city. The diversity of his occupations made him the most open of the family, and his kind nature and interesting conversation made him the favourite Fairfield in the county. He was exceedingly tall, but he was not so intimidating because his frame was narrow and he always wore a smile.

“The day is warm and bright and the flowers are smiling upon us as if we were dear friends,” Florence exclaimed, waving at the visitor who was crossing the distance between them rather quickly.

“And dear friends I’m sure you are,” he said with a tip of his hat. “Good day to you both.”

“To what do we owe this joy, Mr. Fairfield?” Margaret asked the young gentleman.

“Is it a joy, Ms. Merriweather? I do hope so.”

“Of course it is,” smiled Florence. “It always is.”

“And you are always too kind to a scoundrel like myself, Ms. Williams.”

“You a scoundrel?” She asked, laughing at the very idea. “Come now, Mr. Fairfield. Were you simply out for your cross-country stroll today or are you here on some business?”

“Must I be here either by accident or for business? Couldn’t I come on purpose?” He smiled at the young ladies and removed a book from his coat pocket. “This is yours, Ms. Williams.”

“Ah, so it is business,” Ms. Florence replied teasingly, taking the book.

“I’m quite obliged to you for the good read.”

“Good, then you can do me a favor, dear friend,” Ms. Williams said, taking the book and looking through the pages.

“I am at your service, Ms Williams. How can I help?”

“Well, we have heard there is a new family coming to the area. Do you have any knowledge of them?”

He threw his head back in deep and jovial laughter, fully understanding the situation that they were so trying to be coy about. “I have heard the news, dear ladies, but know very little. I’m afraid that the ladies in town may have the information you seek.” He turned his gaze onto Margaret. “Ms. Merriweather, I had the privilege of running into a mutual friend of ours today- Mr. Roberts.”

“Really? Did he have any news?”

“Only that he was heading into the country for a hunting day this weekend.” He smiled.

Florence cut in, steering back to the conversation of literature. “Tell me, Mr. Fairfield, what did you think of our forlorn hero, Henry Welcott?”

“Ah, Mr. Welcott.” Mr. Fairfield folded his arms as he thought. “Weak-willed, if you must know, but the extensive development of his character did win him my respect at the end, even if I did offer it begrudgingly.”

“Why Mr. Fairfield,” remarked Florence, “Upon my word. You speak as if he were a real person and not just a character in a novel.”

“Ah, but he is a real person, Ms. Williams. He is the author incarnate, although to what extent I do not presume to know. But to be sure, every author puts at least a little of himself in his characters.”

“A fair observation,” Margaret said with an approving nod.

“Although I can’t say my father would approve,” Ms. Williams added, her gaze upon him steady. “He never approves of anything besides well calculated figures.”

“Your father always approves of me,” replied Mr. Fairfield with a smirk, “because while I enjoy the transport a novel provides, I have long been proficient and accurate in my calculations. He can not be disagreeable to that.”

“No, I suppose he can not.”

“Well I must be going now. A lovely day to you both,” he said with a tip of his hat. As he walked away, he turned back and added, “and Ms. Williams, my sisters do miss you terribly. I know they would be immensely pleased to see you, if you should find the time.”

“Of course I should, Mr. Fairfield.”

“Splendid. Good day to you both.”

When the gentleman was much too far to hear them, Margaret turned to Florence and smiled. “How often does he happen to be on a stroll in this area?”

“Why Margaret, what ever are you suggesting?”

“Nothing you weren’t thinking.”

“The idea is ridiculous- and I know it not because it is my own, but because you have alluded to it in the same tone as the spinsters allude to Mr. Roberts when you are around.”

“Oh Florence, for once do not be so modest. You’re a very handsome creature. Why should you declare it impossible?”

“Thank you for deeming me handsome, Margaret, but I am not very handsome, only just a little- not nearly enough to tempt the likes of Mr. Fairfield. Just to begin with, he is more than ten years my senior. Furthermore, I have little prospects in comparison and I am not nearly as accomplished as he is.”

“Only because you don’t try to be.”

“Well isn’t that the problem altogether? If we were of the same sort then I conclude that I would have to try harder, for either by determination or by curiosity I would make myself as rounded as he is.”

“The fact that you can say that is proof enough,” declared Margaret, who took the arm of her friend and led her through the sea of colorful blossoms. “For most could not even pretend that they could become so accomplished even if they did want to. And furthermore, you’re smiling.”

Florence laughed. “Oh hush. That is because it’s all a rather ridiculous joke. Come now and let’s forget the talk of such nonsense and return to our previous follies. What were we discussing?”

“The Bronte novel. Jane something or other.”

“Oh yes, Jane Eyre. Splendid.”

And with that Ms. Williams put Mr. Fairfield and all of Margaret’s distasteful jokes far from her mind. Mostly, anyway.