The Belvedere.

Where is my Life Going?

Harriet was now twenty-two years old. She had never been presented in society. Her father saw no need of losing another daughter after Fanny had married and left home. The way he saw it, Harriet was required at home to look after him, and should be happy to do so, and grateful for it even though she had a mere pittance of an allowance. She had not minded at first. She did not approve of most of society, and it would not approve of her. She had been told, by her father and Fanny, that she was bookish, and she was. Men did not like bookish women. It did not matter. If it came to that, Harriet would not have liked a man who could think a woman to be bookish only because she liked books. She was not afraid to engage in heated discussion in her own family if the need was there, but was shy and quiet among strangers, loath to put herself forward.

She regarded herself as already on-the-shelf, but did not care to think about that, or what could have been possible for her, had her mother lived. Her future had been thrown off track when her mother, Josephine, had died when Harriet had been but sixteen. Her mother had shaped the household up to that time, deciding how everything would go forward, and dictating how things would be. Her husband had known better than to object, but in any case, had been entirely satisfied at the way his own life had improved with that marriage. She had been a kind and considerate woman who had many plans for her daughters, especially for the younger, Harriet, but had not disclosed what those plans might be other than for a hint here, and a hint there. She had also managed their father well, despite his awkwardness. He had no head for business, and his wife saw that he did not influence what she decided would happen around them.

Fanny—her older sister by four years—had married and left home some years earlier. The little she had heard from Fanny after that, had not been of a happy existence, but one of misery, the way Fanny told it. But that was Fanny. She never could see good in anything and had merely swapped her father’s tyranny for that of a selfish husband if Fanny could be believed. Harriet had come to believe that Fanny was quite capable of saying certain things which were almost the exact opposite of the way they were.

Yes, Mother. I remember you warning me of my sister and her jealousy toward me, and shall be careful what I say to her.

Harriet’s mind was soon brought back to where she was and what she was doing, when she began to realize that, despite turning back, she had wandered further than she had intended in a new direction, and along a path that was not so familiar to her. No. She had intended it. She had been gripped by this strange feeling that she should keep on walking and never look back; never go back. It had been a short-lived feeling when she felt the first pangs of hunger, and had been cognizant of her mother’s continued warnings.

She could see the valley she had left, behind her and the familiar peak, still in front of her and now to the right, so she knew where she was, even if she had never been so far out before.

No, Mama, I am not lost. I may not know exactly where I am, but I am not lost.

Nothing much deterred her for getting out, not even the threat of inclement weather, high winds, or any of the number of impediments that her father would try to throw in her way to dissuade her. He always wanted to know where she was and what she was doing, and constantly threatened to return them all to London, if she could not settle herself down. Why he had chosen to leave London in the first place, Harriet could not fathom, and he would never have told her anyway.

It was early summer, and she refused to be housebound, no matter the weather. She strolled out every day that she could, and explored the surrounding area, moving further afield as the ground became more familiar to her.

She was returning late, again. No one would be worried for her. They knew better than to worry after the first few days of her walking.

With the wind increasing, and the much heavier clouds rolling in, bringing a much darker afternoon with them, almost like evening, it began to rain hard. She still had the better part of three miles to walk. She should have listened better to Charlotte. She had gone further afield than she had intended with her mind as occupied as it was, contemplating her future, and the emptiness of it.

Her life’s course had already been decided for her. It was a bleak prospect; like the fells, empty, and entirely without promise, and would remain that way as long as she was under her father’s roof. But there was no escaping that now.

The wind strengthened, making walking difficult against it, and driving the rain almost horizontally. It felt as though the temperature had also dropped. There could even be wet snow mixed in with the rain, which ran down her face and down her neck, discomforting her even more. She could feel her dress getting heavier with the amount of rain that it had soaked up already. Where it clung to her legs it robbed her of warmth, but she could keep walking. She had no choice.

I know it was my own fault, Mama, for choosing to go so far, but that is what I intended to do, remember? One day, I shall not return.

Such a severe storm was unusual for this time of year, and she was high on the hills and still far from home. She should not have walked so far. She had not anticipated such a fierce storm appearing out of nowhere. She had dressed too lightly with the temperature being as warm as it had been when she had set out. It had been a sensible decision when she had left, but that had been hours earlier.

Her father would be sure to preach at her for getting caught in it, if he learned anything about it, and suggest she not go out again. She would say nothing and stay out of his way when she got home.

She soon became soaked through to the skin on her back as well as her front, and her hair sent dribbles of rain down her forehead with her leaning into the wind, with other cold trickles, creeping down her back. She knew where she was, and knew that it would take her at least an hour to get home, with the track beginning to run with water. It was becoming slippery where the water ran over the rocks, and with heavy mud in other places. What had been a small river beside the track she was on, would become a raging brown torrent in another hour or two.

The path she was on soon turned into a stream course along which she splashed. There was nowhere to shelter; no trees to huddle beneath, which would not have been wise anyway with her as wet as she was, and no walls to take shelter behind, out of the driving wind, so she continued walking. She would soon be home and getting dry.

Yes, I hear you, Mama. The belvedere is closer, and it will offer some shelter from the wind and rain until this blows over. So the belvedere it will be.

She could try to wait it out in the belvedere that sat upon the lookout between their own estate and that of the neighbor, Sir Percival Blunt. That was the closest place to shelter, until the worst of it blew over. Sir Percival had seen it built for his first wife, some forty years earlier, and it was now neglected. He was never there—so she had been told—but had gone to London. There was rumor that he had the place up for sale. He could even have died for all she knew. Her mother didn’t seem to know, so there was no point in asking her.

When she got there, she was not only even more wet, but was feeling miserable and cold. Was this what the rest of her life was to be like? And winter lay not so far ahead. She may not be able to get out at all for days or weeks at a time then. That prospect was not comforting.

The rain had a chilling effect on her. She knew she should keep walking, but it seemed that the rain was coming down even harder than before, and she had been right, there was a snowflake or two mixed in with it. She stood still. Her dress was no longer clinging to her legs, but water from it dripped steadily onto the floor. She was still a half-hour walk from the house, and she decided that she should try to dry out before she continued, but she had nothing to dry herself with. There was already a puddle formed around her feet. She could have a hot bath and change, once she got home.

She waited, and waited. It did not let up. She tried to wring the bottom of her dress out, and got rid of a lot of water, but there was no going anywhere until the rain stopped. She sat herself on the hard stone slab, which formed a seat, in the middle area of the building, out of the wind and rain, to wait. She tolerated her wet and cold dress touching her legs again and brought her feet up onto the seat in front of her (she was alone, so would not make a spectacle of herself for anyone to see). She adjusted her dress to touch her as little as possible, while making herself into a compact bundle to stay warm. She began to feel more miserable as the temperature dropped. Today, was like her life. It had begun well but had soon deteriorated.

She felt like crying. She had never felt so depressed before. They should never have left London. She should have insisted on staying with Fanny, as Fanny had desired, but only as long as her father stayed in his own home, but her father had put an end to that possibility. He had stated, without any expectation of being contradicted, that he needed Harriet with him. Harriet’s future was clearly to be that of a drudge, either taking on the burden of her sister’s impossible children or looking after her equally impossible father. She had no choice in the matter. Either she went with him, or he would have cut off her small allowance and made life even more impossible for her. He had never threatened that, but it had been left sitting there as a possibility.

Harriet, huddled herself in as small a bundle as she could, constantly adjusting her position to find the least discomforting seat, feeling the rain running from her hair, down her neck, and she could even see small wraiths of water vapor rising from her wet dress, where it was held close against the top of her legs. She brought her feet closer to her on the seat and leaned back into the hard marble. She would need to conserve her warmth, but the wind constantly blew in around everything, whipping leaves across the floor.

That was when she noticed that there was a fire laid ready in the central stone fireplace three feet in front of her, with a screwed-up newspaper laid there; kindling on top of that, and then smaller pieces of wood. There were larger logs stacked off to one side. Someone must have been here, and not so long ago. That fire had not been laid when she had last come through two days earlier. There were other changes too. She could not recall having seen them before.

How would I know who laid it, Mama? It can do me no good anyway as I do not know where the fire-steel might be, or the char-cloth, either.

She knew that there must be a tinder box of some kind, or some lucifers on a shelf somewhere to get it started, but ruled against moving to do anything about it. She would not be here for long enough. The moment it let up…. She also became aware that the pigeons were gone. Their incessant cooing was no longer to be heard. They had been cleaned out from their nests up near the windows above her, and some attempt had been made to sweep the floor clean. It might even have been mopped.

Harriet let her head drop onto her knees and she cried.