Part Three


Oh, to be torn twixt love and duty
What if I lose my fair-haired beauty?
I'm not afraid of death but, oh---
What will I do if you leave me?

---"High Noon" ---Tex Ritter

*****

Sailing away on the heady wind of that fond farewell with his Lizzie on the Smuggler's Beach, Anthony Bracegirdle was as assured of his sweetheart's devotion as ever a man could be, and his resolve to be her husband had steeled his sense of purpose to a degree he had never known before. For while it was true that he was a young man of exceptional gifts: for friendship, for loyalty, for steadfastness and mirth, it was also true that old Barnabas Goodbody, the father of his fair intended, did not entirely miss the mark when faulting Tony's lack of impetus. The greatest blessings of Tony's character; his lack of want, his blissful outlook, and his natural bent for complete and utter contentment in nearly any set of circumstances did seem at cross purposes to those qualities which must normally drive a young man to better himself, namely, desire, dissatisfaction, and ambition. For the first time in his life, Tony Bracegirdle had felt the need of something he feared he could not have, and with that need (and chiefly, the necessity of disabusing Barnabas Goodbody of his adverse assessments) foremost in his mind, very nearly to the exclusion of all else, in the year and six months he would be separate from Lizzie he would apply himself to his studies and to his duties with a fervor and diligence that more than once would cause his perplexed captain to furrow his brow and wonder aloud at this changling come aboard his ship.

Perplexed, but also delighted was this captain, (for he had an especial fondness for his genial young midshipman, but had long found frustration in encouraging the boy to bestir himself to his full capabilities) and he did not hesitate to find with all expediency, an opportunity for Tony to stand for his lieutenant's examination, going so far, even, as to exert some small influence upon what board members with whom he had some amiable acquaintance, to ensure that his protege was tested on a subject he knew well, thinking only, of course, to cement that success in which he already had every confidence.

And so success was achieved, and indeed it was a more manly, matured, and decidedly determined Tony Bracegirdle who stepped off that ship and began his journey home to Haythe on that splendid October night, lit by that fulsome harvest moon which seemed to Tony to be an omen of most imminent good fortune, as big and bright and bountiful as the future he now imagined was well within his taking. With the application of only a little work and will, every obstacle to his desires has thus far fallen and the one that remained, that bothersome Goodbody, would soon fall as well, he had every expectation.

But there was one expectation he did not ever entertain, and indeed it was one that would never even have crossed his mind to consider, for it would have been as impossible a fancy for him to imagine as if someone had come and told him he would arrive home to find his family had all been turned into cats, or that he would descend into a Haythe that more resembled Babel, and all conversation now to him would be naught but foreign and confusion. That expectation, so incredulous, so unimaginable, would naturally be that he might think he had discovered, upon his return, that his lady's heart had turned, and that she no longer loved him.

In short, he did not, he could not, imagine it, and so you must now imagine his bewilderment when, upon making his own home on a Thursday, and immediately, before so much as kissing his mama and sisters or laying his hat upon his own bed, he did dispatch a retainer with a note informing his beloved of his return, and of his intention of speaking with her father forthwith, (along with various and sundry barely seemly endearments and assurances that they would soon be together just as they once had been…but more so) only to have the letter returned, unopened, within the hour. And imagine his consternation and concern when two more such missives, sent on the Friday, seemed to fail in similar fashion. And think you, then, of his agitation and perplexed state of mind, when, vexed and confused beyond all understanding, he made his up his mind, on the Saturday, to appear at Goodbody's very doorstep, card in hand, and his sister Lucy at his side, only to be told that Miss Elizabeth Goodbody was not at home to visitors.

By the Sunday he had fallen almost completely into despair, thinking the very worst, or very nearly the worst, for he still held out that Lizzie's father might prove yet to be the villain of the piece, and it was only this hope, and the chance of catching sight of his heart's only love, and if it could at all be finagled, of stealing her away for a moment's private conversation that must set all his fears to rest, that persuaded him to drag himself out of his bed and make his way to church with the rest of the family that day.

Now imagine his utter bewilderment and desolation when, espying the object of his entire life's purpose, looking, he was devastated to observe, more perfect, more desirable, more radiantly beautiful than even his most extravagant shipboard fantasies could ever have conjured, standing between her parents in the pew across from his, her sweet profile defined by the curve of a most cunning bonnet, tied with blue velvet ribbons, her lovely figure demurely draped (but nonetheless tantalizingly imagined by one who knew it's shape so well) in a gown and cloak of stunning peacock blue, and espying her there, as has been said, so close as that he could surely not escape her notice, he was disturbed to find that no amount of coughing and clearing of the throat, of loud singing, nor of the distracting ruffling of pages and dropping of his hymnal to the floor in the midst of the meditation did induce her to so much as turn her head in his direction.

And witness his further distraction when, after the service, as the congregants stood about in the churchyard, enjoying a bit of gossip with their neighbors in the bright autumn sun, he saw her again, there in the company of her parents and another small group which now appeared to have been joined by a person he did not at all recognize, and the look of whom gave him an immediate misgiving, for it was a young man somewhere in the reach of five-and-twenty and two-and-thirty years, quite tall, and with a physique as some might call elegant: broad shouldered and wasp-waisted, with a trim leg and erect bearing. He was dark of hair and eye, his features both regular and (Tony must allow) passing handsome, and he was dressed in the first mode of fashion, but all in elegance and good taste, with nothing of the dandy or fop about him. He seemed to fall into easy conversation with the Goodbodys, and indeed old Barnabas could be seen several times to throw back his head and laugh at some or other of his remarks, and even to clap a friendly hand on the young man's broad, impeccably tailored shoulder, and what was worse, the fellow seemed to be addressing himself with frequency and great interest to Lizzie, and she to be lifting her head and smiling charmingly at him, and speaking words which Tony would have cut off his right hand to have been able to hear.

"I say, who is that fellow?" asked Tony of his brother, Jonty, who, as under-pastor to his father, had delivered that morning's sermon, the Reverend Mr. Bracegirdle having suffered a slight indisposition having to do, less, his wife had opined, with a surfeit of his favorite glazed pork, as his insistence on combining the dish with a ragout of turnip and green apple, the which she had long ago ascertained, even if her husband had not, did invariably result in just this same indisposition, and if he would stubbornly refuse to heed her advice then well might he suffer, and expect no sympathy from her. She washed her hands of him.

"Oh, him?" Jonty replied, touching his hat to a pair of matrons, and bestowing a smile on their eligible daughters as such were paraded past him in a way that reminded him of the sweet cart that was presented in the dining room of the hotel de Savoy in London, where he had once spent an utterly debauched week in the company of his Cambridge fellows (an event that had never been disclosed to his papa, of course, and one also, of course, that was never to be repeated). "That," he said, "Would be a Mr. Bromford Bownes, nephew, and heir, we are told, to Sir Barclay Beresford Bownes. The elder Bownes, apparently, has a large interest in Goodbody's company. The younger, it would appear," said Jonty, wiggling his eyebrows significantly, "Has rather a larger interest in the company of Goodbody's daughter, wouldn't you say?"

*****

Tony's misery was now almost nearly beyond his ability to contain or deny. Jonty had no knowledge of his affection for Lizzie, as indeed, owing to the delicacy of the situation, he had endeavored to keep it as much of a secret as possible, in the interest of preserving his beloved's reputation until such time as they could declare themselves openly and properly. Only his sister Lucy had ever guessed that he was in love, and had been made his only confidant, and yet she had made no mention of this Bownes individual to him, and Tony could not think why, unless it had been to spare his feelings until that last inevitable moment when he should discover it himself.

"Oh, don't be such a goose!" Lucy had admonished him when he later confronted her. "Of course she can't be in love with anyone else! How could she be?"

How, indeed, Tony mused dejectedly, for what was a tall, handsome, undoubtedly rich baronet-to-be in comparison to a stout and ordinary vicar's son and unemployed lieutenant of His Majesty's Navy?

Lucy had but rolled her eyes at him and declared that she knew not what was at the root of Lizzie's pique, but that he might at least apply himself a little longer to discovering it for himself, rather than being so quick to retire his every hope of happiness. As far as she knew, Elizabeth Goodbody had not been spoken for.

"Only come to the harvest carnival," she urged him. "And I am certain you will see and speak to her there, and beyond that, you must, because Mama will like as not never let Daisy and Tildy and I go without you take us, and we will need some help as well with carrying all of her plum puddings that she is making for the fete."

Poor Tony. Had he not been in such a state of high expectation upon coming home, perhaps his descent into the pits of pessimism and defeat would not have been so sudden or so deep a plunge. He hated himself for it, but he was finding it ever so difficult to struggle against his growing apprehension of the certainty of his disappointment, and yet he struggled to with believing in that certainty, for the measure of his pain was the measure also, of the intensity of his love which he knew he could never put aside, and to contemplate a future without Lizzie was to contemplate no future at all.

Go to Part Four