Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me
And nothing I to back my suit withal
But the plain devil and dissembling looks
And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!

When Miss Blakers stepped off the train at Whitemills, she was expecting to be met by her employer, Mrs Millie Robert. In fact, there was no one on the platform, a dusty veranda-type construction made of wood, who could possibly answer that name. The only other person, save the station master, was a flaxen-haired hunchback in his best Sunday clothes. He smiled at her as the train chuffed off, and slowly pulled himself to his feet. He was quite tall, and would have been a relatively presentable middle-aged farmer, had his back not been misshapen. His beard was neatly trimmed for the occasion and his clothes were no better and no worse than any farmer's Sunday clothes. What Miss Blakers could not comprehend was why he should be sitting on the station platform in his best clothes, since he obviously was not meeting someone.

In this she was wrong. Millie Robert, who had seven children, although that is hardly an excuse, was renowned for being late, and more so for not coming at all when she had an appointment. The hunchback, whose name was Tom Simkins, and was to be Miss Blakers' neighbour, it turned out, had heard of her arrival, and had proposed to go and fetch her from the station. Mrs Robert had declined the offer, but Simkins felt he could rely on her to be absent when he disobeyed her order. All this and more was Simkins' subject of conversation as he picked up Miss Blakers' cardboard suitcase.

"You sure travel light for a lady. Do you not have a trunk?" he suddenly said as they started on their way.

"Yes, I do, but it won't be here before next week. I didn't send it in time." She plucked at her glove rather than stare at him, which was her first impulse, as she had never seen a hunchback before.

"So you're to be our new schoolmarm?"

"Yes, it seems so."

"I don't know your name."

"Jenny Blakers."

He turned his head just slightly to look at her. She was a thin, middle aged woman with a definite spinster look about her. Her dark hair was drawn back in a sensible knot and her clothes were as plain as any widow's, although he reckoned her age to be no more than forty. She was in fact thirty-nine, but he was not to know this until later. She had probably been handsome with the bloom of youth, but that lost, she remained a plain-looking, sensible person. You could not call her ugly, because her features were all in proportion, but in truth they were so orderly that they left no place for beauty. Having said this, it must be added that Jenny Blakers did have rather peculiar eyes. They were dark, with long lashes, and, although dulled by seriousness, they were capable of reflecting any strong emotion their owner felt fit to express. This is to say, they were at present rather dull, dark eyes, since Miss Blakers was being very serious indeed, sitting uncomfortably bolt upright in Tom Simkins' farming wagon.

He looked at the road again.

"You don't look like a Jenny to me."

"I guess I looked like a Jenny to my mother."

"I shouldn't think if my mother had the naming of me again she would call me Tom. I'm not much of a Tom."

Miss Blakers was not sure the conversation was taking a proper turn, so she changed the subject.

"Are you a farmer, Mr Simkins?"

"Sort of. I don't sell much produce, but I have enough to keep me busy, and fed."

"I think I shall try to keep some chickens. It is so pleasant to be able to eat fresh eggs every morning."

"I'll sell you one of my best layers, if you like."

"I wouldn't like to take one of your best layers, Mr Simkins."

"It's not often anyone calls me Mr. They usually refer to me as "Tom" round these parts. I'm not mad about Tom as a name, but I guess a body has to put up with the name his old folk thought fit to give him. "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet"."

Miss Blakers was not sure Tom Simkins was quite in his right mind. She straightened her corseted back into an even more severe pose of spinster disapproval.

He pretended not to notice. He had had to put up with a lot from women in general, and spinsters in particular. This probably had nothing to do with his being a hunchback, but more with his bachelorhood and isolationism. There was only one house within walking distance, about half a mile, of his, and this was to be occupied by Miss Blakers after remaining neglected for years, very much as was the school she was to take charge of. The idea of a schoolmarm in this little settlement came from Millie Robert, who owned the old schoolhouse and the neighbouring house, because she was 'darned' if she was going to pay to send seven children to boarding-school. The other inhabitants were not over eager to send useful hands to school, but would no doubt encourage the less handy ones to follow an academic line. The result, anyway, was Miss Blakers. He decided she was perhaps not ready for Shakespeare from a stranger.

He dropped her off at her new home, a small red and white house that was to be let to her furnished. Indeed, once Tom Simkins had driven off, she found the house to be furnished most lavishly by such an assortment of old fashioned furniture, that one would have thought to be in an antique shop, or someone's attic. This last thought was quite close to the truth, since some of the objects did indeed come from various attics around the neighbourhood. Jenny Blakers was too tired to worry, however, and sat on a very uncomfortable armchair in the parlour, to think about her first day of school, the following Monday.

After her first week of school, Miss Blakers decided to take a walk out the back of her house. There was a pleasant little brook, shaded by overgrown trees, bouncing off the white stones of its bed and calling her out to take a walk alongside it. She had looked out of her kitchen window the very first day her neighbour had brought her home, and ever since, she was aching to take a go beyond the hill which was her horizon in that direction. Unfortunately, she had been too busy preparing the schoolhouse and moving in to give in to her desire. The only children who were not Roberts were three uninteresting urchins, who seemed to function only if the Roberts told them to. One of these was a particularly sickly little thing with some dreadful disease which was expected to carry it away pretty soon. The new school teacher had held out for a week, but today, after a very disagreeable time with her unruly, arrogant Robert pupils and their ugly, ignorant mother, she felt she had deserved a rest.

She put on her straw bonnet and old-fashioned, narrow coat, before stepping out into the chilly autumn air. Irritating little wisps of dark hair kept brushing against her face, and the wind soon made them into a regular little fringe all around her hat. The walk was not too disagreeable, however. She had always been a good walker, and had on occasion had to cover many miles to go to some of the schools she had taught at. She followed the stream as best she could, and finally came to the top of the little hill she could see from her back windows. The land went downward below her, sloping towards a small farm and its outhouses. This, presumably, was where the hunchback lived who quoted Shakespeare. Well, Shakespeare had written at least one role for hunchbacks.

She was certainly a funny sight, standing on the top of her hill, one hand on her bonnet to keep it still, the other pulling strands of hair out of her face. The hat was quite modern, but the coat, made in the fashion of the 1880s, made her look rather more like a Jane Austen heroine than a spinster schoolmarm. She stayed on top of her hill for some time, apparently observing his farm. He watched her for a while, from his kitchen, where he was putting some potatoes to boil while he brought the cows in, and then went out into his front yard to call his boy. The boy, a French lad, was as usual fast asleep in the nearby field. Simkins would probably have preferred to do without him altogether, but unfortunately, he was not strong enough himself to do most of the farming chores, and the boy was a sturdy lad, and could work wonders when he put his mind to it. As it took some time for the boy to appear, Tom was at leisure to watch the spinster on top of her hill. No doubt, he would have been better advised to quote some Jane Austen, could he remember any.

Jenny's fingers were gradually getting numb, and her face was now covered by a sheet of flapping hair. She decided not to stay there any longer, to be stared at by the hunchback, which was obviously what he was doing, standing in his yard. She saw a young man walk out of a nearby field, and the two men walked off towards the cows grazing in a distant field. It occurred to Jenny that her neighbour's land must be quite large. It seemed a pity he was all alone to look after it, since the boy must be a hired helping hand. She wondered whether she might be right to hire a maid herself, since she was having trouble settling in and the house Mrs Robert had given her was too big for one person. But on the other hand, she was used to being alone, and knew herself to be rather awkward in company. She never knew what to say to anyone who was not a pupil, and even there, she tended to be rather abrupt. She was conscious of this failing, but had never been able to find any remedy. As a young girl she had been shy to the point of being disagreeable to anyone who talked to her, and now that age had given her a role to play, that of the severe spinster, she played it perfectly.

Tom too was conscious of a communications breakdown. He could not communicate with the people in town because they rejected him as a hunchback, and anyway, he was a bit too clever for the likes of some. He had once offended some well-thinking spinsters by declaring that Roman Catholics believed in a much nicer God than anyone in Whitemills. That, of course was unforgivable, and ever since, for ten years, the town had regarded him rather as a devil incarnate, and shunned him as an unrepentant sinner. People had been talked out of renting the house next to his, Mr Robert would not sell it, and it had been unoccupied for years. The idea of having a new neighbour was rather amusing for him, and he planned on paying her a social call some day, to see if he could pretend to be a sociable beast after so many years of living alone.

One evening, as she was out taking another of her walks, Jenny was surprised to meet Tom on his "social call". He was ambling slowly over the hilltop just as she was about to turn back and go home.

"Good evening, Miss Blakers."

"Ah, good evening, Mr -er- Simkins, is it not?"

"Yes, a plural noun, like yours."

There was a silence between them, and she went back towards her house. He followed her.

"I hope you don't mind me dropping in like this."

"I guess not."

"It's just for a cup of coffee."

"Yes."

"I reckoned you must be getting lonely."

"Well..."

"What I mean is that no one seems to call."

She was silent.

"Not that I'd know who calls or not."

"No."

He was silent.

"I guess I'll give you some cookies, too, with my coffee."

"That would be nice."

"I make them myself."

"I'm sure they're very good."

"I make good coffee, too, my mother taught me."

"Coffee is a very good drink, I must say."

"Yes."

They had reached the house with this desultory conversation, and she opened the back door, which lead them straight into the kitchen. She opened another door, and proceeded to guide him to the parlour. She was rather ashamed of her parlour, as it was not really ready for company. She had used it as a library, stacking up all the books which had arrived with her trunk a couple of weeks earlier on any available table-space, as the bookcases were already full. In fact, as Tom now guessed, her trunk had contained very few clothes, being mostly full of nineteenth century novels and other works of English literature.

She apologetically removed Jane Austen's six novels from the coffee table.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't really expecting company."

"Of course not. I apologise for calling unexpectedly."

"No, no. A house must always be ready for visitors. My mother's always was."

"Mine, too. But we have a very big library, so I guess it was easier."

She did not answer that remark.

"I'll go and make the coffee. You just wait."

He did just wait, but found it difficult to wait sitting, as no normal armchair had ever been made to accommodate his back. In fact, these particular armchairs had probably been made to accommodate no one's back. While he waited, Tom walked about the room, reading the titles of all the books in their various piles. The volumes on the bookshelf did not, in all likelihood, belong to Miss Blakers, as they were mainly twenty volumes of some obscure encyclopaedia. The Bible, of course, was also there, a giant, leather-bound block at one end. The books strewn around the furniture were far more interesting, and some of them were even paperbacks. He ignored the Brontës, all of them, as well as Defoë, Coleridge and Scott, inspected Dickens and Richardson, and rapidly peeped into Thoreau and Dickinson. He had just come across Little Women, when Jenny came back with the coffee and biscuits.

"I was just looking through your books. This is quite an impressive collection."

He laid Louisa May Alcott on top of Thackeray and, as he made his way back to his chair, he caught sight of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

"Now there's something I really approve of."

She was pouring out the coffee.

"I'm sure you do. You wouldn't go around quoting Romeo and Juliet if you didn't."

He sat down, rather pleased with the conversation.

"Do you remember who says that?"

"Your quotation? Juliet, of course."

"I know most of Shakespeare off by heart, I've read him so often. An admirable writer."

"I guess he wouldn't be considered the best poet in the English language if he weren't."

"There's more to him than most scholars see."

"I'm sure."

They stopped speaking in order to drink.

"I suppose you prefer Jane Austen."

"Have you ever read anything by her?"

"Yes, I read Pride and Prejudice a long time ago. She's more a writer for women, though."

"I don't think she has much less to say than Shakespeare. She just chose not to."

"Not to what?"

"Talk about certain things."

"I forget what she did talk about."

"You can borrow any of her novels, I have them all."

She pointed to the pile of Jane Austens.

"I will. It'll be a change from the things I have at home."

"Like what?"

"Well, Shakespeare, mostly, and all the rest of these folk. I'll be glad to read Jane Austen. I'm sure she is a good writer. After all, she is a classic too."

"Most people just keep her books on the shelf, but I have read them all several times."

They both fell silent again.

She soon felt it to be her duty to say something.

"I see you have a farm hand. I was wondering about getting a maid, but I decided it wasn't really worth it for a small house."

"I have quite a big house, but no maid."

"Do you live all on your own?"

"Yes, I have ever since my father died, about fifteen years ago."

"That's a long time."

"Yes."

He proceeded to eat one of her cookies.

But she would not give up the fight for sociability.

"You were born here?"

"Yes."

"I suppose it must be quite pleasant to always live in the same place."

"Not always. It depends on the place you live in."

"I wouldn't know, I've been a schoolteacher ever since I left college. Of course, I was fortunate to go to college, but before then I had been at boarding-school, so I never really lived in the same place all my life."

He found himself warming to her confidence.

"For my part, I never went to school. My mother had to educate me at home."

"Yes, I gathered there has not been any real school here for some years."

"There was one then, but the other children took an instant dislike to me. At the end of a week, I was so black and blue, my parents had to take me away."

"You say that as if it were funny."

"No, but I've got used to the idea since. Some of the girls who hated me then have grown into respectable spinsters."

"Like myself."

"Yes, exactly, only I doubt any of them have ever read Jane Austen and Shakespeare. The extent of their knowledge is the Holy Bible."

"There is plenty to read in the Bible."

"Of course, so much in fact, that no one can agree about what is in the Bible. Everyone has a different idea about what God or Christ said, did or wanted human beings to do. Around here, they all agree that God made me evil, and punished me by making me a hunchback. Unless they think he made me evil for being a hunchback, I forget."

"Yes, I gathered they don't think much of you around here."

He laughed.

"It would take two of me to be worse."

"To be worse? I thought it was just their imagination made you so bad in their eyes."

"Perhaps their imagination made me bad in my own eyes, or perhaps I am really bad. I forget after all this time."

"And I forget whether I am really good or just a hypocrite."

"I would bargain on you being a hypocrite."

She was made speechless by his declaration. He just shook his head.

"Here, Miss Blakers, I am being impolite. I'm sorry, it's time I left. I hope we can continue this fascinating conversation another time."

"Why, yes, I'll be glad to see you again. After all, we are neighbours, so had better be on friendly terms."

"Well, to stay on friendly terms with you, I invite you to return my call whenever you like. Can I borrow this?"

He held up the copy of Pride and Prejudice. She nodded.

They walked back to the kitchen door, and he started out into the night. After a small moment's hesitation, she decided to accompany him.

"The least I can do is walk you home."

"Thank you."

"I like walking a lot."

"I'm not very good at it myself."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear it."

They walked over the hill in silence. It was getting very dark, so she went no further.

"I don't think I'll walk all the way over to your farm."

"No I wouldn't if I were you."

"Well, good evening, Mr Simkins."

"Good evening, Miss Blakers."

She watched him go home.

It was some time before they met again at the funeral of her sickly little pupil, whose expected death had occurred a few days earlier. The child, who had only come to school for a week, was in the middle of a large family, and its death was more of a relief than otherwise for the bereft parents. Miss Blakers just attended the funeral because the mother had suggested it might be a good idea. Perhaps she wanted to have a proper look at the schoolteacher before entrusting any of her fit children to her. The funeral took place in the local Methodist churchyard, and the minister, a temporary one of the same denomination as the graveyard, pronounced a very long, boring sermon on the death of children, promising the departed urchin an immediate accession to angelhood.

Falling asleep in her pew at the back of the church, Jenny was astonished to be abruptly snapped out of her doze by Tom Simkins, who had slyly, she felt, come to sit beside her during the service.

"I reckoned you would be here."

"Goodness, what are you here for?"

"Why, to wake you up, of course, stop you interrupting the Reverend's fascinating sermon with your snores."

"You should be ashamed to say such things, and in a church, too!"

"I haven't been in here for a long time. I quite forgot what you can and can't say in a church. The Bible only says women shouldn't talk in a church, I had forgotten it also applied to men."

"What are you talking about?"

"St Paul, First Letter to the Corinthians: "Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law." I learned it off by heart. Somewhere else he says the head of woman is the man, although you would not believe it in this hen-pecked assembly."

"It just means that women can't be ministers."

"That's a pity. No woman could be so boring as this fellow."

"I see being in a church brings out the worst in you."

"You can see a lot, I dare say, but understand very little."

"I'm afraid you're just being silly."

"Nothing to fear, I'm just a bit awed by this grandiose setting. That window needs repairing, don't you think? I would expect this place to be as well furnished as a Catholic Cathedral, considering all the money these good women pour into it."

"The money probably goes to missionaries in Africa."

"Oh well, I suppose it makes very little difference where it goes, as long as these good souls have made their consciences and their purses lighter."

"That is your opinion. But now, a bit of silence. We are at a funeral. There's a dead child in that coffin."

"Thank you for reminding me. I had fain forget it. I have seen children in coffins before. People die here."

"They die everywhere."

"Not in Pride and Prejudice."

"Just as well, that makes Pride and Prejudice a better place than this."

"It just makes it a smaller place than this. It has a little world, in which everyone is too young to die. All they can do is marry."

"That's close enough to dying. Now shut up."

"What are you doing at this funeral?"

"I thought I asked you that question."

"Well, I'm keener on an answer."

"The mother invited me, sir."

"Well, I was not invited, but happened to hear it was to take place, and, supposing you to be here, I endeavoured to creep in here to ask you why you have not yet returned my call."

"I was perhaps waiting for you to return my book."

"You should have come and each would have retrieved his due."

"I had no time, I'm sorry. I did hope to come and see you, but I found reading in my bed more pleasant, I'm afraid."

"I would that I found a lonely bed better than tea with you."

"I make coffee, remember, not tea. My tea is very weak."

"I make good tea, better than coffee. You will come and have tea, some day."

""Will"? Who do you think you are, ordering me about in a church?"

"You are just as good a hypocrite as I had imagined."

"Of course. But I have my pride, and I dislike being ordered about anywhere."

"And I have my ambitions, I would like you to come to tea some day."

"I'll come if I want to."

"Say you will want to."

"I don't know what your tea is like. It's probably as bad as mine, only you have never tasted better and wouldn't know the difference."

"You had better try it and bring me the light of your better judgement. And what better way than coming to tea at the farm?"

"Will you give me back my book?"

"Yes, of course I will. I've finished reading it, right from "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife" to "they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude to the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them"."

"Tell me, sir, do you often pursue innocent maidens into churches to quote Jane Austen to them?"

"There's a first time to everything."

"That is not very reassuring. If you had made a habit of this sort of thing, I would be gratified to know I had nothing to do with it."

"No other woman I have met would respond to Jane Austen."

"I see, having tried Shakespeare the first time we met, you now try Jane Austen."

"Perhaps next time I may be permitted to give you a speech from Twelfth Night, and from there proceed upwards."

"To what?"

"My favourite Shakespearean play."

"Now what could that be?"

"I'll let you guess."

"I must say, you're making awfully free with someone you hardly know."

"I'll get to know you better. Guess what my favourite play by Shakespeare is."

"Richard III, that's easy enough."

"Not so easy, the last time I asked someone what they thought my favourite play was the answer given was Hamlet."

"Who did you ask?"

"My mother. She obviously thought of me as a melancholy prince. I'm more of a tyrant at heart. How did you guess it was Richard III?"

"You look like him."

"Yes, I suppose my mother had not noticed. Not in the way his mother had."

"Well, I'll do my best to persuade you that Pride and Prejudice is a more wholesome work of art than Richard III."

"Wholesome, yes, but I doubt your persuasion can convince me Jane Austen is as satisfactory for a passionate spirit."

"Then try Jane Eyre."

"You're the educated teacher, lady."

"Yes, I dare say I would be a good, plain Jane to any passing Rochester. What a pity you do not hide a mad wife."

"I'm not mad about rambling about on the moors, either."

"That's not the same story."

"I know, that was just in case you advised me to turn into Heathcliff. I find Richard a better fellow. But I cannot believe myself to be a Mr Darcy."

"You're beginning to talk funny."

"I can talk decasyllabic blank verse, if you like."

"Why shouldn't you be Mr Darcy?"

"For one thing, although I am a single man, I am not in possession of a good fortune."

"Yes, that certainly cuts you out of any novel hero."

"Novel heroes are not hunchbacks."

"Rochester goes blind and Heathcliff is ugly."

"But not Mr Darcy."

"So you shall be Richard III?"

"Yes, and you can be mad Margaret, or Queen Elizabeth, or whatever you like."

"Or poor Anne Warwick? I'd rather be Elizabeth Bennet."

"Be who you like, I am Richard Plantagenet."

"Now be quiet, the service is nearly finished."

"Will you come to tea on Saturday? I promise I'll give you a good meal."

"To take is not to give."

"Well spoken, lady."

The service was indeed finished, and the various members of family and community trooped out of the church, casting a disapproving eye on Tom Simkins' crooked form and Miss Blakers' unfamiliar face as they went. Perhaps some of the matrons had heard them whispering excitedly at the back of the church, although the minister's booming voice made that improbable. Besides, they were probably all asleep.

Simkins left the funeral at that point, very pleased at having extracted from her the promise of a visit. In truth, she was at fault, since a call must be returned, and she could have retrieved her book when she called. But she had really supposed his first visit to be due to forced politeness, and could not believe he really wanted her to drop in at any moment. Now she knew, she would.

She returned the call on Saturday, as promised. She wore the same coat and hat, because she had no other, but she was wearing her best dress, a printed calico with a tighter waist than she was used to. The shoes on her feet were not the best, because of the muddy walk over to the farm. As she went over the hill, she saw the lights in the farm, and hoped that he would not mind her dropping in, despite his insistence on her coming.

In fact, when she knocked at his back door, a voice was heard almost immediately, telling her to go around to the front door. Rather put out by this command, she nonetheless obeyed it and walked around to the oak door which, judging by the time it took to open, had not been opened for a long time. The opened door revealed her host in his best clothes, an old-fashioned dinner-jacket and starched collar and cuffs. He looked quite elegant, in a quaint, uncomfortable way. He ushered her into the little parlour, which he had doubtelessly aired out, rather unsuccessfully, to receive her. There she sat in silence while he presumably set about making her tea.

She had been sitting for a few minutes, when he suddenly came back in.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"What? Why, well, I, I suppose it'll be a bore for you."

"No, I, well, I was about to eat. I've made a pie. Nothing much."

"Well, right, I will, how kind."

"Yes. A moment."

"Yes."

He disappeared again. She was trying to think about some polite subjects of conversation for dinner, when he came in again.

"Do you want to eat in the dinning-room?"

"I, well, I think, we don't have to. I mean, if there's a problem."

"No I've set the table."

"Oh, then I'll come now... Shall I?"

"Yes. Come in."

The evening was off to a bad start, she felt. She wished she had stayed at home, and gone to bed with the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, as she was at present wading through Richard III. If she had stayed at home that night, she would have doubtlessly finished the play, as she had just reached Act V, and had stopped reading, putting Richard's death at Bosworth Field off to another night. She had found Richard's gradual decline rather sad, since she imagined him looking and talking like Tom Simkins. The latter was thinking at that very moment how much he enjoyed Pride and Prejudice, and could quite understand Mr Darcy's comment on Miss Eliza Bennet's pretty eyes, if they were anything as pretty as his neighbour's had been at the funeral.

The dinning-room was quite large and relatively richly furnished. In fact, the farm-house had probably been, in the past, more of a house than a farm. But the rooms were musty and had an unused smell about them, and their furniture was dusty. The large country pie he served her was totally inappropriate for the old china they were to eat off, and so was the tea he expected her to drink with her dinner. It did not take them long to finish the pie, and he then treated her to a very nice raspberry chiffon, made from raspberries he had preserved himself. She thought how very sad it was that he had no one else to help him in this big house.

After dinner, nothing he could say could prevent her from helping him do the washing-up. The kitchen was probably the most used room in the building. It even had a bed in one corner, which they both pretended not to see. Then he suggested they go into the library. This room, on the other hand, was well used, and the hundred or so books stacked in an ancient bookcase between the carpeted floor and the low ceiling, were bound in leather soft with handling. She sat down at the incongruous mahogany desk the gas lamp rested on, wondering why a farmer should bother to have such an expensive desk. She would have liked to ask, but he was busy lighting a fire to take the chill off the air. The fireplace had already been laid and warming, yellow flames now sent flickering orange light on the room.

He sat down in an armchair beside the fire.

"Won't you sit closer to the fire."

"Yes, I think I will. It's quite cold in here."

"My father always said it was good for the books."

"Are they all novels?"

"No, twenty of them are plays by Shakespeare."

"Just one play in each book."

"No, in some cases they have two or three, and one of the books is his sonnets and songs, and things."

"I see."

They listened in silence to the crackling fire for a few minutes.

"I couldn't help noticing the very great pleasure a pair of fine eyes in the firelight can bestow."

"You are fortunate I am in no mood to make them into basilisks to turn you into stone."

"No, because you are cleverer than most. It is easier to torture a live man than a statue."

"Shall I endeavour to torture you, sir?"

"Not tonight. After such a modest dinner, you surely have no stomach for such sport. And anyway, wherefore should you want to torture me?"

"You're right. I am to be all sweetness and perfection, and ingenious wit."

"Lady, you will be the fair maiden out to conquer a husband."

"And you shall be the evil hunchback out to conquer a kingdom."

"Beauty and the Beast rise again."

"Let's not introduce some other element into this. It will be difficult enough for me to refrain from saying "my lord" to you, if you are going to call me 'lady'."

"That's all right, there's no audience here. I promise not to attempt decasyllabic blank verse. I lied when I said I could."

"I did not believe you anyway, sir."

"And I thought myself to be a master liar."

"I believe I have come to bring you the light of my knowledge. I plan to expand this mission beyond the area of tea."

"Was my tea acceptable?"

"I have tasted better, but it was an improvement on mine."

"Then what are you going to correct in me?"

"Your ambitions?"

"Why, my only ambition in life was to bring you here to talk about literature."

"I thought I was here to drink tea?"

"Well, I had two, and they have both been fulfilled."

"There must be more, or else you would already have let me go."

"Not at all, I wanted to discuss literature with you. I am still waiting for the conversation to move naturally in that direction."

"Very well, then. What to you think of the use of nature in Wuthering Heights? Study the relationship between the physical and the spiritual in the Metaphysical poets?"

"It would take me all night to answer those questions."

"You have ten minutes."

"Very well, I give up. I do have another ambition, to keep you talking here with me as long as possible."

"I will have to leave some day."

"I don't see why."

"You will if I tell you Mrs Robert was at my house this morning to scold me into harmony and plenty. In fact, I was wondering whether to come or not this evening, and she quite changed my mind."

"Admirable woman! And what has she to do with what we were discussing?"

"She has to do that she would soon find out if I were to spend unseemly time here, and I very much doubt she would approve."

"And what of that?"

"She's my employer."

"Well, I suppose that is as good an excuse as any other."

"It is not an excuse, it is a reason."

"Do not play on words, lady."

"I rarely have any occasion to moralise two meanings in one word, or indeed, make a difference between two words with a similar meaning. Please let me use my feeble wit when I can."

"I certainly will, Miss Bennet."

"If you will not call me 'lady', call me Miss Eliza."

"And what shall I be called?"

"Mr Plantagenet?"

"Richard."

"Gloucester, then. I will not call you Richard. And I had rather you call be 'lady'."

"A flattering title, isn't it? I would be more justified in calling you "Maiden" or "Wench"."

"The latter title doesn't suit me."

"The first one should, but I guess 'lady' it will have to be. I shall treat you as such some day, and make you stand on a chair, like a statue."

"So, you won't let me turn you into stone, but you want to put me on a stand like a statue?"

"Yes, if you are to be my lady, and I a chivalrous knight, king or duke, whichever you like, I must idolise you like a saint."

"I am not a saint, I am a woman."

"I can hardly call you "woman"."

"It does not matter what you call me any more than it matters what we wear. I am a woman, and I hope to act like a lady."

"What makes you woman and lady?"

"That I am a woman? I always have been a flesh and blood creature who must wear uncomfortable clothes. And I am a lady because I have not thought it necessary to tell all the world how uncomfortable I am."

"All right, then, I shall call you 'lady'."

"Well, now that we are both rid of the names you disapprove of, what shall follow?"

"Anything you like."

"I think I'd like to go home and go to bed."

"Is it so late?"

"It's seven o'clock. I'm sure you have to get up early tomorrow."

"And so fall, Duke of Gloucester, rise up Simkins."

"Console yourself, 'tis only Jenny leaving, Eliza still remains within her book."

"Will you come again, next Saturday?"

"I don't say I won't. I'll see if I fancy the weather."

"But shall I live in hope?"

"All men, I hope, live so."

They met every Saturday evening, sometimes in her house, but mostly in his old, musty farm house. Soon the news of their weekly encounters reached the ears of every respectable spinster of Whitemills, and their imagination made Tom Simkins and Jenny Blakers guilty of lustful adultery. Yet the neighbours were guilty only in their dreams, and had only committed the mistake of being in each other's company alone. As other people became gradually more hostile and suspicious, they became closer companions. Their weekly meetings soon became daily and Jenny started to come straight from school. Tom's employee had left him as a result of public rumours, and she helped on the farm before supper.

One night, he served dinner in the library. They sat and ate in silence and once the meal finished he sat back and stared at her for a long time. She met his gaze:

"Are you afflicted with absence of mind, sir?"

"I was meditating on the best means of making you comfortable, lady."

"I am at ease, sir."

"I do not think so."

He pushed away the desk they had used as a dinner table:

"I was thinking of ridding you of your stays."

"I should like to think you could."

"Miss Bennet -"

"Miss Eliza Bennet, sir."

"Elizabeth, I think you would be more comfortable."

"And what difference would that make?"

"I doubt you would think yourself so superior if I did undo those garments."

"I do not think myself superior. You're the duke. I'm just a modest maiden."

"And a bashful hypocrite. I will first rid myself of my own fetters."

Her face grew redder and she turned to smile at the fire. He stood up and took off his jacket. Then he untied his cravat, unbuttoned his collar, unstudded his cuffs and lifted his head to look at her:

"Come, I'll rid you of your stays."

He walked to the back of her seat. She stayed perfectly still, sitting bolt upright so that her back and that of the chair did not touch. She breathed quietly while he undid the many buttons at the back of her tight calico dress. She felt the thick material release her long white neck and straightened it in a posture of stony resignation:

"I would like you to know I despise you for this."

"Good. Then you'll have the double advantage of being comfortable and superior."

He stopped talking as he parted the rigid material, revealing her white shoulders and the lace of her slip. He stood back, staring rather coldly at her back, as if he were contemplating a statue. She lifted her head slightly from its averted position and made as if to turn it around. He pulled the dress down as she did, and her head returned to its first position. The corset strings made him lose his detached look for a moment, as he had trouble undoing the knot. But the two ends finally parted and the whalebone they had tied separated slowly as she took in deep breaths.

"There, now you must be more comfortable."

She stayed in the same position, her eyes closed with the rediscovered pleasure of being undressed by some else:

"I'm not sure that I am, with all these bits of clothing around me. It is most indecent, Mr Gloucester."

"Then, if you will stand up, I'll pull the rest off, Elizabeth."

He placed his fingers on her white skin and pushed her slightly to make her stand up. She did so and briefly fingered her own neck as if it ached from being imprisoned:

"Just the stays. You never said you wished to see me naked."

"Well, perhaps not now."

He took one side of the corset in each hand and pushed both the stays and the dress off her arms and body. He eased the narrow bodice over her wide hips and let the clothes slip down her petticoat. He timidly caressed her bared arms up to their pale shoulders, where two thin straps of lace held up the light slip which preserved her modesty. She took in a large breath that lifted her shoulders and turned her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye.

He took one step back and pushed the desk chair close to the fire:

"There, with your dress and stays off, you look more like yourself, Miss Eliza. Now are you comfortable, lady?"

Her voice was low and soft when she answered:

"I cannot be a lady in this humiliating position."

He turned the chair so that it was just behind her:

"You may have a pedestal in that case."

She stayed standing for a while, without looking at him. Her white slip and petticoat looked yellow in the light of the fire and he stood behind her without touching their golden folds. She waited for him to say something else, and as he did not, she turned to look at him, her sparkling eyes suggesting a touch of wickedness:

"Now, shall I stand on this chair and let you adore me, as you promised, sir?"

He bowed and held out his hand to help her up. The chair was made of strong wood and had no cushion, so there was no risk of her falling. Once comfortably perched, she slowly lifted both arms and pulled out the five pins which held her hair. The first two released the thick locks covering her ears and let them hang on either side of her face in mid-nineteenth century fashion. The third uncurled part of her bun, and the last two freed the dark mass of her hair and sent it floating down onto her white shoulders. She held out the five pins to him and he deposited them reverently on the library table.

She lifted her head towards the top shelves of the library and he watched as her eyes disappeared into shadow, leaving only her thin lips and the rounded A of her chin and throat in the firelight. Then she slowly looked down towards him again, observing the shadows on his light hair and the sharp lines the fire drew on his features. She looked at him without seeming to see him. He lifted his face and returned her stony gaze:

"How can I woo you from here, lady?"

"You must find out by yourself, sir."

"You'll have to tell me how, lady."

"I wouldn't know, I have never been wooed before."

"What can I do to make you like me?"

"Placing me in indecent underwear on a chair is probably not the best thing."

He walked around the chair admiring her still attractive body:

"It may not be the best thing to win you, but it certainly gives me something to win."

She put on a candid air:

"You wish to win my petticoat?"

"Yes, and the slip."

He put up a hand to her but she pushed it away:

"I'm afraid they are not the prize."

"No, I have more ambition than that."

"So we come back to your ambitions again. You do intend to woo me and win me."

"I have been led to understand the only pleasure a woman can have in life is being wooed, whereas the man's pleasure is only in winning."

"Then perhaps you might give me something to win."

"Myself."

She turned her face towards the fire:

"Will you marry me?"

"No."

She looked at him, not at all surprised:

"Then why woo me?"

"I need company."

"Would you woo me if I weren't a maiden?"

"Perhaps."

"Is my Maidenhead all you want?"

"No."

Her lips parted, but she said nothing.

He put up his hand to brush down a few loose threads on her flannel petticoat:

"Do you think I am handsome?"

"No."

He lent forwards so that his face touched the flannel:

"Then why let me woo you?"

She felt his face against her thigh through the material and let him caress her legs before saying anything. Then she put her hand on his head and ran her fingers through his hair, as if to keep his head against her:

"What else can I do?"

He lifted his face and ran his hands up her back, and down again to her waist:

"Come down, Elizabeth."

"I daren't, Richard."

He ran his hand around her waist and up to the straps of her slip. They did not slide off and down her arms and he left them where they were. She caught his hands as they slid down her arms to her own. He kissed her fingers and pulled her towards him:

"Please, come down, lady."

She let him pick her off the chair, but then pushed him away. The fire was dying out, and he could not see her face as it approached his own and he felt her lips touch his.

They were married a few days later by a passing minister. Jenny was quite pleased by the turn her relationship with Tom had taken, and did not hesitate to tell him so:

"You see, Jane Austen was right. Marriage is indeed a good way to end things."

"I don't see in what way our marriage is going to end things."

"For one thing, I need no longer be a schoolmarm."

"And we will no longer be considered odd because we are not respectably married... One day they will have forgotten all their suspicions when we have kow-towed to them for long enough. And I promise you I will do all I can to become respectable, for your sake."

She smiled, her eyes full of hope for the future:

"Well, so all has worked out for the better. We will now live the happy life promised by all novel endings."

He turned towards her and kissed her:

"Perhaps, but we will die in the end."

And so they did.