The Invitation

  * * *

  ABBIE SAT UP with the opening of her door. Mariana, after spending these last few days in the nearly constant care of her aunt, had come to visit her sister. Abbie had occupied her time in various idle ways. She had slept a good deal, and was by now growing restless. She had read the book she had brought with her and another she had found forgotten in the room. She had thought of doing a little cleaning, for the maids who had come to do it only managed to stir up the dust in the process and took none of it away with them. Without the proper equipment, however, there was no way to go about it without making the problem worse. She was prepared to confess now that the rest had done her good, at least at first. But now, almost a week later, the lack of occupation was threatening to drive her mad. She found that these quiet hours only gave her mind opportunity to recount her losses, to feel them more acutely. She missed her home, that pleasant, airy place on the Hampshire Downs, her little Oak Lodge nestled amidst the yew and ash trees that grew in abundance at Holdaway. She wished to return there. She wished, at least, to go back to her old life. Would she be more inclined to choose Holdaway Hall were she to receive the invitation now? Of that she was not certain, but she might have been less hasty in refusing it had she known to what she was coming.

  But she was being pessimistic and she knew it. Her old life would never be hers again. There was no bringing back her parents, after all. She might one day renew the association she had made amidst Holdaway’s laboring families, but would she ever have it in her power to help them, to really be of use to them? She thought not. But that did not mean she could not make a place for herself here. She might learn to be a companion and aid to her aunt, as Mariana had so quickly done.

  “Tell me about your day, Mariana. I have been so bored here with nothing to do that anything you have done will sound an adventure in comparison.”

  “It hasn’t been terribly exciting,” Mariana answered, sitting down upon her sister’s bed, “but I’ll tell you if you like. I have taken my meals with our aunt in her private room, for she prefers the quiet company, and it seems the housekeeper who lately has been attending her is desperate for relief. There is much work that has been neglected owing to the needs of our aunt, and the housekeeper has consequently been unable to keep up with her work. Apart from that, I have spent some time each day reading to her. She likes Cowper’s sermons, and more didactic poetry than I care to indulge in. There is too much of repentance and lost souls and ruined lives for my taste. She has had some mending and needle work projects she has wished to have done by a more skilled hand than she presently has in her employ, and so I was happy to do that for her as well. I confess it gives me much pleasure to serve her. I find she reminds me a great deal of Mama. Does she not you?”

  “No, I don’t think she does. Do you truly find her like Mama?”

  “She is a very tender hearted woman under the gruff exterior. And that gruffness is only born of concern.”

  “Is that so?” Abbie asked doubtfully.

  “If only you could know her as I have learned to do,” Mariana said, laying a hand upon her sister’s arm.

  “Well, I’m not likely to do that shut away in my bedroom, am I?”

  “Are you feeling any better?”

  “I am not ill, Mariana. Yes, it’s possible I have lately been overexerting myself, but I have rested now, and am as well as I have ever been.” Abbie sat up as if to prove the point, but found instead that she was a little dizzy. She was not sure, after all, that she did feel entirely well. But the thought of remaining in these rooms was almost too much to bear. If they were cleaner, perhaps… “You mentioned the neglect of the housework, Mariana, and hinted, I think, of the servants’ lack of skill in their professions. Why is it our aunt hires those who do not know their work? Has she told you that?”

  “No, and I have not asked. She is aware of the deficiencies in her staff and has apologized for it. She assures me it is soon to be rectified and has even gone so far as to hint we will understand it all very soon, and that we may even play a hand in some great project she has in mind.”

  “I’m uncertain whether that makes me very hopeful for the future or a little in dread of it,” Abbie said with breath of laughter.

  “You said you wanted something to do, some way to be helpful.”

  “Yes, of course. It is an unpleasant novelty to be idle this way. Put me to use. I will prove that I am up to any task.”

  “Is that so?”

  Abbie and Mariana both turned to find Aunt Newhaven standing in the doorway.

  “You have rested?” she asked of Abbie.

  In answer, she arose from the bed. “As faithfully as you have requested, Aunt. I am much recovered, as you see.”

  It seemed, after all, she was not entirely convinced.

  “Give me something to do, Aunt. I want to be of use to you.”

  Aunt Newhaven did not answer.

  “I might clean my room. Properly, that is,” she added half-abashedly. “Were I given the proper equipment.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Abbie feared she had offended her aunt, and so knew not what else to say.

  “You might direct, however. Were you to train my girls, I would be very grateful. You do know how to clean a house properly, I presume?”

  “We had one servant at home, Aunt. She was both cook and housemaid, I’m afraid. But it was at times necessary to help her. At least Mother wished for us to understand how to manage a staff, even if it was a modest one. But I wonder, Aunt…”

  Aunt Newhaven nodded her permission to continue.

  “If your girls do not come to you prepared for the work?” Abbie asked. “Why then do you hire them? Why do you pay them?”

  “I don’t.”

  The answer raised more questions than it answered. “Then how…?”

  “That is they are paid in ways other than monetarily. I provide for their needs. I have a cook, she teaches a few to help her. I have a laundress who teaches a few more to wash and to iron. It was meant that Mrs. Giles would teach the rest to serve and clean, but it has never happened. I’m afraid I’ve kept her too busy attending me. Things are different now. I needn’t rely on her quite so much for my own comfort.” She offered a grateful half-smile in Mariana’s direction. “It has been my intention to train these girls with the hope of eventually preparing them for employment elsewhere. But we have had a difficulty finding all the necessary assistance. There is too much to do, and not enough time to do it. There are so many distractions, and of course the need for constant discretion, which necessarily makes it difficult, sometimes impossible, to get the help we need.”

  Something of her conversation with Mr. Meredith was recalled to Abbie’s memory.

  “I still do not understand, Aunt. Why do you train them at all if you do not mean to employ them yourself? Why take the trouble?”

  “Someone must. There are ways of getting money that require no training, that require only an abandonment of self-respect. That is not what I intend for these women. It is, in fact, what I wish to rescue them from.”

  “Do you mean to say, aunt, that—”

  “In most cases these women did not choose their misfortune. They were led to it, misguided, their mothers failed to teach them to be wary of smooth words and longing looks. Or perhaps they believed in the promises of better lives than they had so far dared to expect for themselves. To be punished for that mistake, to be ostracized, to be cast aside, shunned, denied every privilege, every respect… Who deserves that? Can you tell me? What I do here—what we do here—it is a necessity. An unfortunate necessity, but a necessity nonetheless. And I cannot do it alone.”

  Abbie sat down hard upon the bed. All the breath had been taken from her. She understood now. She understood it all. Her hand, she realized, was in her sister’s. Had she placed it there unthinking, or had Mariana taken it in her distraction?

  “I should have told you before now,” Aunt Newhaven offered by way of apology. “The oppor
tunity did not present itself.”

  Still, Abbie had nothing to say. She could find no words.

  “It is a hard thing I have asked you to be a part of.”

  “No, Aunt,” Mariana said, stepping forward. “We are grateful for the opportunity to serve.”

  “I know you are, my dear,” Aunt Newhaven answered. “And what of you?” she asked of Abbie.

  It was noble, the cause her aunt had undertaken. If Abbie had ever wanted an opportunity to serve and better her fellow men, or women as the case may be, was this not the very thing? And yet she could not deny that the consequences to being so involved in a reformation society such as this were very grave. There would be no outings, no visits, no society luncheons or evening parties. There would be no society at all. Advantageous marriages were now all but impossible. Did she really care? She would never have admitted to doing so before! She thought of Holdaway, of the Crawfords, of their offer and all it might have meant. She thought of the people who lived there, and how her every effort to help them had been nothing more than a weak attempt to stave off the consequences of poverty that were every day at their door. From the food she had taken them, to the fevers she had nursed, to the babies she had helped to deliver, it was service, meaningful enough, but which could never render any lasting improvement. Here was an opportunity to make a real difference. Here was the opportunity to change lives for the better. Was it not the very opportunity she had been praying for?

  “I will help you, Aunt. In any way I can.”

  Aunt Newhaven had evidently prepared herself for an argument. She released a great sigh and closed her eyes. “Thank you, my dears. I think you will find, despite your misgivings, that you will not regret it.”

  And yet Abbie was not yet so certain as that. She both dreaded and looked forward to the first opportunity to prove herself. She longed to be of service to another. She feared nothing she ever did would be of any real use.