The Gaslight Journal
You Can't Go Home Again (Chapter One)

Without being attentive to where she was walking, Isabella Audley, having collided with something solid, soon found herself lying in the snow with the wind properly knocked out of her, wholly unaware of what it was that had blocked her path.

She lay for a moment, stunned. 'I hope no one is looking.'

"Help you up, miss?"

A man stood beside her with his hand proffered, a group of men his approximate age, just behind.

Miss Audley, being a lady of privilege and the human condition--never a good combination for one with her own mind--fought the urge to be proprietous, although, she knew well, that being suitable was indeed what had always been expected of her. This divergence, however, seemed to inevitably be her own undoing, much to the chagrin of her poor mother.

"Did you lose your eyesight in a horrible accident?" she yelled, fully realizing that divergence had won out, yet again. Finding her reticule, she hastily made her way to her feet. In spite of her ire, she was not foolish enough to pass up a gentleman's hand, even if he needed a good lecture from a chapter in Our Deportment.

"Sorry, miss, I truly did not see you," said the man. A low ripple of chuckles permeated the group.

As she brushed the snow from her skirts, she was aware of crimson creeping into her cheeks.

"If you had any sense of decency, you would be ashamed right now."

The man deigned not to make any reply, but unable to contain himself, said, "I suppose, the same could be said of you, miss." He then tipped his hat to her in an exaggerated fashion. When he saw her anger at his statement, however, he knew an apology was in order.

"I should have been more careful. In fact, as a group of gentlemen always on the hunt for a beautiful maiden, we offer our most sincere apologies."

The men murmured agreements while tipping their hats to Isabella.

She stared at the lot of them, but considered the man in front of her. He was quite comely and tall, with mounds of thick hair. His clothing tailored, his mannerisms suggested a man of fine breeding; a gentleman. A smile formed on her lips, for he seemed quite familiar, and yet, she was finding great trouble in placing from where. "Well, I will leave the judgment of the term gentlemen for the higher courts, as it is a most questionable modifier, but I accept your apology."

The handsome man smiled in return, his eyes boldly engaging her own. "Good day to you, miss; we needs be on our way. And Merry Christmas to you," and with that, the men moved to exit.

"Just a moment," she said.

The group waited.

"Do we not know each other?"

The man, obviously taken aback by the question, was having visible difficulty in hiding his anxiety at the question. "Uh, no miss, I do not believe we do."

And before Izzy could form a proper response, they took their leave of her.

After gathering her things, she continued. The snow crunched beneath her high-heeled boots, making proceeding difficult at best. She had decided to leave off the patens, hoping to make better time. Blast the damp boots, and she had arrived at her decision. Today was a day when the weather was revealing itself to indeed, serve as a wonderful new way to meet eligible bachelors without even trying.

But she had not a care in the world of it and put the dark-haired man out of her mind, vowing to think the matter out when she could avail herself of more time to give it proper attention.

It was five days into the month of December, and her spirits were high. She had not seen her mother since spring, when Mrs. Audley had made a rare trip to see her at Radcliffe. It was here that Izzy was completing an English Literature degree.  Lilly Audley had ended up staying for the full week of spring hiatus that year, and Isabella could not have been happier. Their small family suffered terribly since Sir John had died of complications from pneumonia, as Izzy was her parents’ only child.

So while she was blissful at the thought of seeing her mother again, she also knew the event would be bittersweet. This would be the first Christmas that Izzy had been home since his death, and she was determined in her heart to make this as special for her mother as she possibly could, knowing all too well that it would be a near to impossible task.

In fact, that was the very thing making her so late.  The line in Mrs. Jenkins's millinery was longer than she had anticipated, but once she saw the Burgundy velvet hat with the pale roses in the window, she immediately knew this had to be Mother's special Christmas present.  It was one of those gifts that her mother would never be caught buying for herself, which made it all the sweeter to Izzy as she laid out the bills. She gained pleasure from trying to picture the bliss on her mother's face as she opened the most unexpected present.

"May I gift wrap that for you, miss?" came the question that jolted Izzy out of her fantasy.

"Pardon me?"

"I would be happy to gift wrap this for you if you wish. Some beautiful new papers have just arrived that I think you will like."

"Oh yes, that would be lovely. And please make sure to add a nice gold ribbon. Mother does love gold during this time of year," she said.

"Fine. I will return straight away with your gift," and the saleslady disappeared behind the velvet curtain into the back room.

While waiting, Izzy decided to further inspect the spectacular stock of opulent hats. Each time she ran her fingers over the long pieces of silk that hung draped from the back of the brims, she was reminded of the times that she came here as a small girl with her mother. Being the only child also meant that it did not take much convincing to Mother that little girls were always in need of new hats. Hats were just as important to a woman of gentility as the proper slippers and gloves. Mother loved indulging in the purchase of both. Nothing was too good for her daughter. She smiled at how musty show rooms and snippets of tulle could evoke such rich memories. An exquisite green hat then caught her eye, but a voice from behind startled her.

"Good afternoon."

"Is it me to whom you are addressing?" Izzy said as she turned around.

"Yes. Do forgive me, but are you the Audley girl?" said a huge woman standing an aisle over.

Izzy did not recognize her, but apparently the lady with the blazing red hair in the peacock blue walking outfit knew her. For a moment, Izzy had to analyze what she was seeing to make sure that all of that behind, was indeed bustle. She stifled the urge to laugh.

"May I ask who wants to know?" said Izzy, with a bit of the bluntness on which she prided herself.

"Oh dear me, yes, you certainly may. I am Mrs. Arthur Tinsdale, of the New York City Tinsdales. We moved here to Fairtown just about a year after you left for Harvard. My husband secured a professorship at the college, and I met your mother in church one day. We literally bumped into each other, laughed, struck up a conversation, and discovered that we both had an insatiable love for gardening. It was then that she informed me of her gardening club, and so I joined. We belonged to that club for the longest time."

The woman seemed to speak so quickly it was all Izzy could do in her exhausted state to keep up with the story. One thing Izzy did notice, was that the 'peacock lady' had used the word "belonged" in the past tense when speaking of the gardening club. How could that be, when Mother would never quit that club, short of hay fever or the second coming? When the woman finally paused to take a breath, Izzy saw her chance.

"What do you mean, belonged?"

The question caught the woman by surprise, and she said with sincere sympathy, "Oh dear, I do hope I have not been speaking out of turn. I just assumed that you knew."

Izzy felt her face creep crimson again and her heart flipped in her chest. She just knew that she could not listen to this woman's inane ramblings any longer. Without a proper dinner in her stomach, she did not possess the strength to attempt to set this woman's syntax in proper order, but yet her curiosity proved to be too strong. Just as she found words to press for further details, a short man with a moustache and cherry walking stick called to Mrs. Tinsdale from the door, and she excused herself, slipping out the shop as mysteriously as she appeared.

As she did so, the sales clerk returned with Izzy’s wrapped package. She thanked her and made her way into the cool night air, hoping to catch the Tinsdales, but as the shop door closed behind her, she caught only the hem of a peacock blue walking gown as it entered an awaiting carriage.

Noticing nightfall now, she did her best to put her disappointment and the scary blue woman out of her mind by pulling it back to the present. As she stopped to glance behind her once more before rounding the last corner of town, she drank it all in; the way the air tasted like ice; the warm glow surrounding each lamp. She promised to fully enjoy it another night.  

Her mother knew she would be arriving and had Izzy not chosen to give leave to Charles, her footman, so to indulge in the brisk evening air, she might have arrived before dark.  She had no intentions of being so encumbered with a steamer trunk, so she left it at the station and made arrangements for a porter to deliver it at a later time.

Each time on her walks home, she would play a game with herself, imagining the people settling in for the evening in their Queen Anne homes with the amber glow from the lace-paneled windows. Were they stoking and banking fires for long, cold nights that lay ahead? Were there smells of imported spices, herbed breads, plum puddings soaked in brandy, and warm cinnamon scones coming from the kitchens? Were little girls already in their dressing gowns, curled up under their favourite quilts with the family tabby next to them trying to steal their warmth?

Mr. Puss! She had nearly forgotten him. He was the one family member who understood a good nap. He had been hers since childhood, and she was now fast approaching twenty-four.

Remorse crept in at that thought, and ruined her anticipation of seeing him again. Why, she should have been married by now. Everyone expected her to receive many offers at her coming out party, but it did not happen. So, all of Mother's society matrons decided that the next logical place for it to happen would be University. Is that not the sole reason women of her stature and advanced age go to college? This situation, too, unfolded in a different manner than expected, so what was she expected to do? Stop listening to the matrons. She laughed in an infectious manner at the thought of the group being at Mother's one afternoon for one of their weekly teas, when she informed them of her impending doom. She was almost certain that at least three would pass out from shock and need medical attention.

"Perhaps I should carry oxygen therapy with me to save time."

The lights had begun to thin out now as Izzy continued on in the tree-lined streets. She also noticed that tonight there was not much traffic. So in the quiet, she settled into a soothing rhythm with the click of her heels and the beating of her heart, which she noted was unusually loud and rather fast for the medium pace that she kept. Her palms sweaty; her lips dry.

"This would not have anything to do with the pronouncement of the peacock lady in the millinery, would it?" she said to herself. "Of course not you foolish girl. That is just the most preposterous thing you have said to yourself all evening, and there have been some wonders fallen from your lips. Why on Earth would there be anything wrong, and Mother not tell you? For Heaven's sake, you are all she has in the world now."

Yet all of the reassurance she could muster at this moment in time did nothing to stop her feet from picking up the pace a bit. Nor did it do anything to alleviate that ever growing lump of coal in the pit of her stomach.

She recognized her street, and realized she was just one block away, so she quickened her pace. Finally, she rounded the last corner and could not have been happier as her cherished childhood home came into view. She felt her heart leap at its site, but quickly stopped.

The family had always decorated Capriole to extremes for Christmas. Mother and she made it a ritual to bathe every window of the Victorian in the flickering light of long, white tapers. But as she stood staring at the windows, they wore nothing but darkness. There was no hope of the season shining from within. There was only cold, stark nothingness that barely hinted at signs of life.

As she commanded her feet to follow her body and move forward, the closer to the house she went, the clearer she could make out details of the porch. She remembered how it used to proudly wear the scent of greenery over every pane, every doorway and baluster of the elaborate porch that encircled the house. But tonight, that very porch also stood in blackness, lacking not only the usual small lamp to light the way, but even a single holly sprig.

Had Mother simply decided to wait so they could decorate together, as a family should? Stepping onto the boards of the porch and taking time to briefly note their need for a fresh painting, she decided this must be the only logical explanation. Part of her wanted to believe this, yet that horrible peacock lady's face crept into her mind, and her hand shook all over again as she reached for the glass doorknob. Taking a deep breath, she resolved that no matter the situation, she would be adult and handle it in the manner in which she would have made Father proud. Pleased with her decision, she turned the knob and entered.

Copyright © 2010, Carla René
Do not reproduce or use without express written permission.
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