June 10th, 1816

The rainstorm continued into the following days.  Everyone was beginning to grow sick of being confined indoors.  Only Elsie and Jenny were still able to stand the sight of one another, perhaps because their friendship was still young, or perhaps because it felt very old.  The two sat sewing by the lukewarm fire.  Elsie was repairing one of Dr. Larson’s shirts, and Jenny was making an even greater mess of her torn dress.  There were already the stringy scars of countless repairs upon it.  Jenny’s stitches never held for very long.

Elsie hummed a jaunty tune that Jenny had taught her.  The sound, and the ease with which Elsie’s needle danced, were beginning to grate on Jenny’s nerves.  “Could you do my dress?” she asked, finally giving in.

Elsie looked up.  “Of course.  I just have to finish this first.”

Jenny groaned.  “Why can’t Dr. Larson fix his own shirt?” she mumbled.

She was surprised to see Elsie’s ears turn pink.  “I simply thought that I would help him,” Elsie said.  “Since he’s so busy.”

“He’s not that busy,” Jenny replied.  “All he does is read.  And besides, you’re busy too.  You have to finish my poem, remember?  Surely that comes before sewing.”

Elsie nodded, her lips tight.  “Yes, I’m working on it.  These things take time, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I know.”  Jenny sucked in her breath.  “Still, I don’t think you should have to fix Dr. Larson’s things, not when he’s perfectly capable of doing it himself.”

“I don’t have to.  I want to.”

“Why?  He hasn’t done anything for you.”

Elsie smiled, not once pausing in her sewing.  “Yes, he has.  He’s helped me a great deal.”

“You’re still melancholic,” Jenny pointed out.  “Right?” Jenny wasn’t really sure if Elsie was or not.  She was morose sometimes, certainly, but she had never really seemed ill to her.

“I’m much better than I once was,” Elsie said.  “And that’s because of him.”

“Well,” said Jenny, “he doesn’t do very much here.”  Dr. Larson never helped with any chores or farm work.  All he did was meet with Elsie in his room, and read his countless books.  To Jenny, he seemed more than a little useless.

Elsie stopped her sewing.  “He really does care about me,” she said in a low voice.

Jenny frowned.  Elsie sounded so serious all of a sudden.  “Very well,” she said, not sure what else to say.

Elsie stared at her lap.  She rolled a stray thread between her thumb and forefinger.  “Jenny,” she said, “you’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

Jenny looked at her cousin, at her perfect pale face, unmarred by redness or freckles.  Elsie’s statement seemed impossible.  People like her—clever, pretty, special—they were meant to have friends.  It was people like Jenny—too long-limbed, too eager, too peevish, too much of everything—they were the ones that didn’t belong.  They were never so lucky to find someone like them.  So Jenny meant it when she said, “Me too.  You’re the only friend I’ve ever had too.” 

“I have to tell you something important,” Elsie said, continuing to roll the thread, not looking at Jenny.  “And I’m afraid you won’t like me after.  But I feel worse with you not knowing.  I—I want someone to know, and you’re the only one I feel would ever understand.”

Jenny’s mind ran through all the possibilities of what Elise was about to reveal; none of them stuck long enough to seem even passably logical.  She supposed it didn’t really matter anyway.  “I won’t stop being your friend.  Ever.”

“You have to keep it a secret; you can’t tell anyone.”

Jenny nodded.  “I promise.”

Elsie smiled shyly.  “Dr. Larson and I.  We’re in love.”

Jenny couldn’t stop her mouth from falling open, but she closed it back as quickly as she could.  Elsie looked at her expectantly, but Jenny couldn’t think of anything to say.  She knew that it was normal to fall in love.  Her sisters had done it plenty of times before, and she had to admit that she had admired a boy from time to time too.  But it wasn’t meant to go beyond that, beyond whispers and stolen glances.  Not unless you wanted your life destroyed by scandal.  Or worse, marriage.

Dr. Larson accidentally calling Elsie by her nickname now made sense.  And what Elsie had said a few days ago, that she wanted to marry someone of her own choosing, took on new meaning.  She already had someone in mind. 

But why him?  Jenny couldn’t quite say why, but it didn’t seem at all right.  He was her doctor.  And he was a great deal older than her.  Ten years at least.  It wasn’t uncommon for older men to marry younger women, but Jenny knew those marriages never ended well. 

“Elsie,” she said tentatively, “are you sure you’re really in love?”  That he’s not taking advantage of you, was what she wanted to say, but couldn’t bring herself to. 

Elsie nodded, a little too firmly.  “Yes.  Absolutely.  He’s the only person, other than my mother, who’s ever really loved me at all.  I knew it, before I even told him that I loved him.”

“You told him first?”  Jenny had never heard of a woman doing that.

Elsie nodded again.  “I knew that it wouldn’t be easy–that other people wouldn’t approve–but I had to.  And when he said he loved me back–it was the first time that I’d been happy in a long time.”

Elsie may have been happy, but Jenny wasn’t.  There was a reason other people wouldn’t have approved.  A good reason.  Normally Jenny wouldn’t have yielded to conventional wisdom, but in her bones, she could feel that something was very wrong here.  He wasn’t meant to love her.  He was meant to be helping her.  Jenny realized that her hands were clenched in fists.  “When did he propose?” she asked as she slowly relaxed her fingers.

“Oh.  Well, he hasn’t yet.  But he will.  He said we’ll marry once I’m well.  After the summer’s over, when we’re meant to return to England, we’ll travel to Scotland instead.  We’ll elope there.”  Elsie smiled, as her index finger tapped the sharp point of her sewing needle.  “It’s the same thing my parents did.”

Jenny felt like her head was swimming.  One thing was clear to her, though.  If Dr. Larson hadn’t proposed yet, he never would.  Why would he?  His life would be ruined if they were married.  Jenny couldn’t imagine anyone keeping a doctor employed who had acted so inappropriately.  There could only be one reason that Elsie still held out hope for Dr. Larson doing the honorable thing.  One desperate reason.

“Are you with child?” Jenny asked.  “Because there are women who can help you get rid of it—”

Elsie jerked up her head, shocked.  “No, of course not,” she stammered.  “We have—but—I’m not with child,” she managed at last.  She gave a weak laugh.  “Do you think so little of me?”

Jenny breathed a sigh of relief, that did not at all do away with her anxiety.  “No, I don’t think little of you,” she said.  And she didn’t.  It wasn’t Elsie’s fault that Dr. Larson had indulged her.  Elsie, she remembered, was all alone at the Retreat; Dr. Larson had taken advantage of that. 

Elsie might not have been with child, but it was clear from Elsie’s discomfort that she and Dr. Larson had been intimate.  So, with child or not, she was doomed.  She needed to realize that, while there was still time to fix things. 

“I just…” Jenny tried, “I just don’t know if it’s right.”

Fear filled Elsie’s face.  “Jenny, you promised you wouldn’t say anything to anyone.”

“I know, but—”

“Please,” said Elsie desperately, “you can’t.”  She composed herself hurriedly.  “We will get married.  He loves me,” she insisted.

Jenny nodded shakily.  She didn’t believe it for a second.  You didn’t put people you loved in harm’s way.   

That was why she wouldn’t be able to say anything.  She would be dooming Elsie if she did.  If Jenny kept quiet, there was still a chance, however small, that Dr. Larson would do the right thing.  Or even better, that he might just forget about Elsie.  That would leave her absolutely devastated, but Jenny couldn’t help but hope for it still.

“Please promise that you won’t tell anyone,” Elsie begged again.

“I promise,” said Jenny, her stomach churning.  As Elsie smiled, Jenny felt that familiar anxious buzzing coming on her, and she felt a profound need for seashells.  But when she reached into her apron pocket, all that was there was a scrawny old bone.  She wished she hadn’t kept it.  Its smoothness was no comfort at all, not when the world had grown so ragged.