“I think I would probably collapse before the economy did,” he said. “Besides, I believe I would feel very alone indeed if I had to rattle about Hinsford without even my valet for company.”
“I have my dog,” she told him.
That little ball of yappy white fluff he sometimes saw behind the fence of her front garden when he came down the drive, he supposed. From any distance it was difficult to tell the front end of the creature from the back or one side from the other. Only the high-pitched yips and barks with which it objected to his approach identified it as canine in nature.
“Can you get a word in edgewise, though?” he asked. “My valet does pause for breath occasionally. I am not sure your dog does.”
“She does like to bark at strangers,” she admitted. “She is guarding her territory, which for her encompasses my house and my garden and the road beyond the fence. She barks at me too when I have been gone for a while and she is excited to see me back. Otherwise she is a very good listener. She never answers back or scolds or lectures. She listens attentively and simply falls asleep if I become tedious.”
“And do you often become tedious, Mrs. Tavernor?” he asked.
“Do not we all?” she asked him in return. “When we become too engrossed in ourselves? When complaint and self-pity creep into our discourse?”
“And what is it you have to pity yourself over?” he asked her. “The loss of your husband?” He could have bitten his tongue as soon as the words were out of his mouth, for they had been talking with a surprisingly light sort of banter. Her husband had been dead only a bit longer than a year. A little self-pity, even a lot of it, would be perfectly natural.
“I did not mean that,” she said. “I was speaking in hypotheticals, Major. Isaiah died in a manner befitting his life and his faith, and a young boy lives who would otherwise be dead. It would be wrong to mourn his death by pitying myself.”
They were passing Mrs. Bartlett’s house and then rounding the bend past the grove of trees. Mrs. Tavernor’s cottage was tucked away just beyond them within its neat garden.
They stopped outside her garden gate, and she withdrew her hand from his arm and turned to him.
“Thank you, Major Westcott,” she said. “It was kind of you to walk me all the way home. I did not once look nervously about me for bears and wolves.”
“You might have been very nervous indeed if one or both had put in an appearance,” he said. “I would probably run in the opposite direction as fast as my legs would carry me.”
She did not laugh. But in the dim light shed by his lantern he could see the way her eyes crinkled at the outer corners and somehow smiled. She was wearing a cap. He could see the frilly border of it forming a frame about the inside brim of her bonnet. She had a face that of course he recognized, he saw in some relief. A face that was neither pretty nor ugly. Nor even plain for that matter. It was a pleasant face. In the uncertain light he could not decide what color her eyes were—or the little he could see of her hair.
“Good night, Major Westcott,” she said, and turned to open the gate.
“But,” he said, “I must now prove to you, ma’am, that I am not a coward after all. I will accompany you to your door and offer my protection if any burglar or monster should leap out to frighten you.”
“Oh,” she said. “I believe Snowball would make short work of anyone who was not me trying to get into the house. But thank you. Maybe you will hold your lantern aloft until I light the candle inside the door.”
Snowball? Well, it was an appropriate name for the dog, anyway.
Harry followed her along the path to the front door and, sure enough, the dog set up a frenzied yapping from within and came bouncing outside as soon as Mrs. Tavernor had turned her key in the lock and opened the door. It did not know whether to greet its mistress first or attack Harry, and ended up dashing hither and yon, getting beneath both their feet.
“Yes, yes, I hear you,” Harry told the dog. “You are very brave to think yourself capable of saving your mistress from any villainous designs I may have upon her.”
“No one has told her she is not a mighty warrior, you see,” Mrs. Tavernor said.
“And no one ever should,” he said. “No one should ever diminish her spirit with even the slightest dose of reality, even though, to my shame, I just tried it.”
“And does that apply to all females, Major Westcott?” Mrs. Tavernor asked as she busied herself lighting the tall candle that stood on a table just inside the door, a tinderbox beside it.
“That is far too deep a question to be asking me at this time of night,” he said, grinning at her back. “But yes, it does. And to all males too. We ought not to try imposing limits upon one another even when we mean well.”
She turned back to him. There was light in the cottage now. It looked cozy and safe in there.
“Good night, then, Mrs. Tavernor,” he said.
“Good night. And thank you once more,” she said. But as he turned away she spoke again, her voice hurried and a bit breathless. “Major Westcott?”
He turned to look back at her, his eyebrows raised.
“Are you ever lonely?” she asked him.
He stared at her, transfixed. For a moment he did not know how to answer. She was standing very still, one arm reaching slightly forward, palm out, as though she had wanted to stop him and had got frozen in the gesture. Her face registered dismay.
Was she lonely, then? But why else would she have asked the question?
“I suppose everyone feels loneliness from time to time,” he said. “It even happens sometimes when one is in company with other people. Have you noticed? It is the price one must pay, perhaps, for keeping oneself intact. Whatever that means.”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” she said. “Some people thrive upon company, upon drawing everyone’s attention and holding it, often by the power of their will or by doing more talking than anyone else. It is as though they derive their sense of self from crowds. Then there are the people who need to keep a greater distance from others, even if they are not quite hermits. They draw their sense of self from … themselves. They …” She paused and bit her lip for a moment. “But they are sometimes lonely as a result. The price they pay, as you put it.”
Had she been describing the relationship between her husband and herself, however unconsciously? Whenever the Reverend Tavernor had been in a room, all attention had somehow been riveted upon him without any apparent effort on his part. He had had that effect upon people even though he had not habitually tried to dominate a gathering. If anyone else started a conversation, all eyes would turn his way to see what he would say in return. It would not be surprising if his wife was lonely now. She must miss him dreadfully. She was very young to be a widow. She was probably no older than he, Harry thought, perhaps even younger.
“You are still very young,” he said, his voice sounding a bit stilted and awkward. What could he say to comfort her, after all? He was embarrassed. “You will surely marry again and your loneliness will go away.”
She returned her arm to her side at last while her dog settled at her feet. “Ah,” she said. “But I would have to give up my freedom for the dubious pleasure of gaining a husband and losing a bit of the loneliness I sometimes feel. Would it be worth it?”