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jomiddlemarch · 10 months

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Tis the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense

“I’m worried about Matthew,” Mary said, having set down the coffee-pot, every Wedgewood cup filled. The meal might have ended with port or brandy for the men in a household aspiring to be fashionable, but to Jed’s eternal amusement, Mary held fast to her New Hampshirewoman’s disapproval of anything she thought was more for show than purpose and though she was not deeply involved with the temperance movement, she saw limited appeal in spirits, which unlike coffee or even tea, never enlivened the enervated nor hastened industry. Jed spent a good deal of his time trying to impress upon her the value of leisure, but admitted it was a Sisyphean task. She applied her considerable efforts, fussing he called it, to the well-being of those she called friends, so he could not be surprised at her declaration.

“I’m sure you needn’t,” Emma said. This only caused Mary to purse her lips in a manner Jed found adorably kissable, but which indicated she felt Emma was not taking seriously what she deemed a serious matter indeed.

“Why are you worried?” Henry asked. “He’s not written often since he went to New York. At least not to me. Perhaps you’ve heard more from him?”

“If she hasn’t, it’s not for lack of trying,” Jed remarked. “At this rate, we may send Daniel out West to earn his Harvard tuition as his mother’s spent it on postage—”

“It won’t work, Jed, Emma and Henry already know you for a fabulist. You ought to confine your exaggeration to your waistcoats,” Mary replied, sounding very much as she had when they’d first met in Alexandria, all asperity and wit. She turned to face Henry, whose earnestness still matched her own. “It’s not so much what he says as what he omits and there are times I almost feel he’s written me a sermon instead of a letter to a friend.”

“I thought it would be easy enough for him, in New York. They’re not known for their propriety as Boston is,” Emma said. She had found it more difficult than she expected to gain acceptance, even as Mrs. Reverend Hopkins, her soft drawl a lesser issue than the myriad small faux pas she made, which she discovered only through a raised eyebrow or a short, barely audible sniff. When Mary’s efforts at consolation had proven ineffective, she’d brought Emma to Margaret Brook and then to the Bhaers’ exercise in utopia. She’d left with a hand-printed program of “The Pirate’s Fearsome Revenge and Also, His Parrot Makes a Freind” as a talisman against disappointment. “No Lowells, no Cabots, it might as well be a children’s garden party at Plumfield.”

“Evidently the von Rhijns and the Astors would make the Cabots and Lowells quail,” Mary said. “There’s a brazenness in New York society that’s frowned upon in Boston and Matthew mentioned that some of the newer families, the Russells in particular, are rather given to excess, even though that is reflected in their charitable giving as well as their millinery.”

“You are concerned Matthew will be caught up in the battles between old and new money?” Henry asked. “That he may be diverted from his ministry and his neediest parishioners?”

“The man survived five holiday bazaars, including the one the former Miss Hastings attended,” Jed said. “Have some faith—”

“He was at home then,” Mary said. “He knew the players and he knew who he might call upon as allies, should he need them.”

“You make it all sound quite cut-throat,” Jed said. “Not that I don’t think Anne brought a Bowie knife to that sewing bee you hosted. I expect she spiked the punch from her trusty flask as well.”

“No one serves punch at a sewing bee,” Emma said.

“I’m afraid Matthew’s affections are becoming improperly engaged,” Mary interrupted. Henry frowned but Jed let out a low whistle, one his sons had all learned to replicate. He was teaching the girls in secret.

“Improperly engaged! Given the source of such an assessment, I can only assume our esteemed Reverend Forte is enamored of a circus performer or perhaps his inamorata is a lady aeronaut,” Jed said, making little effort to restrain himself. He was, after all, among friends.

“Do be serious,” Emma said, an exhortation Mary knew better than to ever bother with. Henry, uxuoriousness undimmed by nearly twenty years of marriage, patted his wife’s hand. Mary rolled her eyes, but Jed could tell she was equally amused by his playfulness and Emma’s exasperation. There was little latitude granted to a minister’s wife in Massachusetts and Emma’s thirsts for gossip and the latest fashion were generally unquenched.

“Not a widow of means, then?” Henry said.

“He writes almost effusively about a Miss Brook and no, Jedediah, there is little chance she’s any relation to Mrs. John Brook, the surname is common enough,” Mary said.

“What makes an engagement an improper one then, Molly?” Jed asked.

“As her title suggests, she is unmarried, but not fresh from the schoolroom. She is a lady of some years—”

“An elderly spinster,” Jed remarked. “Probably poor as a church mouse, though I’d defer to Henry to explain why all the mice who make churches their residence are doomed to being impoverished. Not much opportunity for cheese, I suppose—"

“Hush!” Mary exclaimed. “She is of middle years and unmarried but what makes the engagement risky—”

“Not risqué,” Jed muttered under his breath, low enough Henry could claim he hadn’t heard but loud enough he’d grinned.

“Is her connection to the van Rhijn family,” Mary went on.

“Is she a second cousin? A cadet branch? A companion?” Emma asked, speaking the word companion as she might say harlot.

“She is Mrs. van Rhijn’s only sister,” Mary said. “He was invited to luncheon at the van Rhijn house. They had New England clam chowder. Miss Brook admitted amidst the guests that she’d had it specially prepared to remind him of home.”

Emma looked aghast.

Henry looked as surprised as he had when his eldest daughter Lydia had announced her intention of studying Ancient Greek at Wellesley College the day after the school’s charter was announced. She had been five at the time and was already halfway through Cicero.

Mary looked concerned and also divinely self-satisfied, largely due to the expressions on the faces of both Hopkins and the near-absolute silence that had descended on the sitting room. Jed could only barely make out the sound of the boys arguing, Rebecca wheedling cakes from Mrs. Hudson for Beatrice and the Hopkins girls. They were dear to him, these three, and though he could not share in the apprehension over Matthew Forte’s affections and reputation, he was fond of the minister in his own way.

“As it’s evident the three of you believe Reverend Forte shortly to be torn limb from limb, either figuratively or literally, with the likelihood of a new iteration of New England chowder featuring a man of God, his frock coat, and quantity of diced potatoes doused in cream soon to be presented at the van Rhijn table, I would suggest a course of action,” Jed said, allowing himself to wax, if not rhapsodic, then comedically melodramatic. Mary might take him to task later, but they were all so earnest and Emma, in particular, needed to be reminded there was life outside the parlor and parish hall, life she had once lived, most threatening with her swinging hoopskirt. It was always fraught, to refer to the War, each of them carrying their own burdens, each of them managing in the best way they knew how, but they had once attended or performed in the dramas of the Mansion House Players and given the clear desire to make a tragedy out of a few lines in Matthew’s letter, their previous experience would be well to be evoked.

“Well, out with it,” Mary said. “You’re overdoing the dramatic pause, Jedediah. If Timothy and John were with us, you wouldn’t escape so lightly—”

He nodded. The two younger boys had his same taste for mockery and were only slightly reined in by Daniel’s steadiness, so like his mother’s, and Bea’s innocence. Rebecca would only egg them on. Mary could quell them all with a glance but only if she chose.

“Matthew needs an ally. Reinforcements. The introduction of an unexpected character from the wings, kitted out with a shield and sword. And flask,” Jed said. Henry and Emma still had blank expressions but a light came into Mary’s dark eyes as he spoke and he loved her for it. “Mrs. Frederick Morris—”

“Nurse Hastings?”

“Anne?”

“I may quibble with your approach, but I must admit, this is a pretty solution. A surgeon’s intervention,” Mary said. “No one can deny Anne has the acuity and aim of a scalpel. She’s impervious to shame, while being well-aware of its impact on those around her. And she has the resources to allow her to make a splash in New York society, though her money’s old enough she will merit some respect. I shall write her in the morning.”

“And if she does not succeed?” Emma said.

“I suppose Dr. Foster may find it necessary to visit Mrs. Manson Mingott and make sure she has been taking her tonics as prescribed,” Mary said, smiling. “Or then, Newport is lovely in the summer and we’d be happy to have you and the girls come to stay for a few weeks, Emma. Henry, if you can’t get away, you needn’t fret. We shall have it all well in hand and Mrs. Brook and Mrs. Laurence will make sure you don’t expire while living as a bachelor.��

“I notice you don’t leave Henry to Jo Bhaer’s tender mercies,” Jed remarked.

“I shouldn’t think he’d survive the theatricals at Plumfield,” Mary said. “And she has quite a heavy hand with caraway, which I know makes Henry dyspeptic.”

“Shouldn’t we just send you to Matthew’s side? Within a week, you’d have wedding bells rung for the lovesick couple and Mrs. van Rhijn ringing them herself as well as all the receipts for Delmonico’s menu for Mrs. Hudson to improve upon,” Jed said.

Henry nodded.

Emma smiled.

“I’m far too busy here at the moment,” Mary said. “And Anne is likely in need of some diversion.”

“Heaven help Mrs. van Rhijn,” Jed said.

“I believe Matthew must be trying his best in that regard,” Henry said.

“Unless she has already dispatched him for chowder,” Emma added, making them all laugh.

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