Chapter Text
The following day, Penny returned to the House, where she rung sheepishly on the doorbell. She expected to be refused entry, due to all that had been said the day before, but Mr Reeves indicated that she was to join Bonnie in the parlour. Astonished, Penny did not wish to question the gift she had been given, in regards to reconciling with her neighbour, and followed the footman through the hallway.
Bonnie was in her customary armchair, though she had moved it closer to the window so that she could read the Bible. She heeded the entrance of her guest and indicated for her to sit, closing the scripture and placing it carefully on the table beside her. Before she had returned her hands to her lap, Penny had already knelt upon the floor, her small hands clasping onto Bonnie’s as she wept, contritely.
“Please forgive me,” she wailed. “I was hurt when I spoke to you yesterday but not solely by you. There are some frustrations and misgivings that I have not quite reconciled with inside of myself, all of which were discarded on you. Shamefully so. Please find it in your heart to forgive me...”
Bonnie stared quietly and enduringly down at her, her gaze softened by the tenderness she felt for the girl. When she spoke, her voice was gentle, a hint of amusement discernible in her tone.
“Penny, do not prostate before me; I do not deserve such kindness.” When Penny peered up at her in wonder, the woman’s grasp tightened on hers and she smiled affectionately down at her. “I have ruminated on all that you said to me and you are correct. I do not like to admit it but, despite the way that I feel, I know that I am surrounded by people who call themselves my friends, I have had the benefit of moving to another home when I was unhappy in my last, and when I came here, I found you.”
Her gaze had drifted to the window in her unease but she had returned it to her companion during the last parts of her speech, smiling once more in assertion of all that she shared. The smile soon lessened, her grasp loosening before tightening once more, though it was not from consolation but agitation. It took her some moments to be truthful, her gaze lowering to her lap as she laboured with her own sentiment. Her thoughts were expressed soon after, though they tumbled from her lips with considerable reluctance.
“Though Yvonne is not here, she was a good friend to me and she has helped me more than she realises.” Inhaling deeply, she persisted. “But so have you and I am grateful that you have been in my life. As to what you said about Miss Ainsley, I am trying to reconcile myself to her, although I think we are so different that I often forget how she has stayed with me. If only she would stop talking of marriage...”
She finished by laughing, bitterly. In her reticence, Penny clambered to her feet and dragged the nearest chair closer, so that they could sit together. She lowered swiftly into it, taking hold of her hand once more.
“I cannot imagine how you have felt,” she sympathised. “I should not have spoken to you in that way, regardless, for it is not my place to punish you when you punish yourself. It was my hope that you see sense, but if you are not fully convinced, I shall be here to tell you otherwise.” She pressed her hand, reiterating adamantly- “I will be here, Bonnie, and that is a promise. Besides, where else am I to go?” Her gaze lowered to her lap, her voice wavering. “I cannot go anywhere... My family ensured that.”
Bonnie’s brow furrowed, desirous that she should provide some consolation of her own.
“You may travel if you please.”
Penny glanced up, her own brow knitting. “How? I depend on Yvonne to grant me my allowance and mother is not always well.”
Deliberating, Bonnie declared, moments later- “I shall give you the money you need, and you may travel wherever you like.”
“Oh no!” she protested, her eyes widening.
“I will not use the money, so it might as well be donated to a worthy cause...”
“I would not take a single shilling from you,” she asserted. Her mouth down-turned to reveal how repugnant she found the notion. “Though I appreciate your kindness. If I am to go anywhere, you must come with me.” Penny fell silent in her speculation. Moments later, she gasped loudly, clapping her hands together. “We could go to York! I have a friend there, Mrs Alston, and she shall be happy to have us. Yes, not only her but Miss Balci! Two of my favourite people in the whole wide world. I love them both with all my heart!” She perceived the hesitation in Bonnie’s countenance and grasped her hand, bouncing slightly in her excitement as she pressed her fingers, reassuringly. “We may go for three or four weeks and we are still within travelling distance if mother was to be unwell.”
This idea merely provoked her further in her animation and, as she clung to Bonnie’s hand, she shook it vigorously. Bonnie was startled by this motion, her brows rising, though she did not admonish her, for she appreciated her enthusiasm. To her, she was a guiding star when all else was bleak.
“Yes, I shall write to her!” proclaimed Penny. “Oh, I love Florence... And she always stays with Hafsa in-season. They will certainly accommodate us.” In her breathlessness, she heeded that Bonnie had not yet responded. Leaning forward, she smiled across at her, panting in her short-windedness. “What do you think?”
Bonnie was silent for a moment.
“I am unsure,” she eventually uttered. “I should not travel too much.” Perceiving the protest that was surely to come, she appended- “For my health.”
“Cornelius prescribed a change of air and I think York shall produce enough excitement for you,” Penny smiled, encouragingly. “Besides, who better to care for you than Cornelius’ own cousin?”
When her companion did not respond, she emphasised her smile once more, the edge of her lips tilting dramatically upward. Bonnie discerned that the youngest was not to alter her mind, now she had come to the conclusion, resigning herself to it. She recalled her reluctance at travelling with Annie, though she had found pleasure in it once she had arrived in Scotland, urging herself to trust that this was the same circumstance. Resultantly, she smiled in response, which satisfied Penny greatly.
“Yes, I shall write to her as soon as I am home. You will love it there! Have you ever been to York?” Once Bonnie had shook her head, she assured her: “You shall not regret visiting.”
“I trust that you know what is best,” conceded Bonnie, meekly. “I think we shall make ourselves merry.” Her smile was feeble, it soon fading into non-existence, and she exhaled lightly, her head inclining forward in her repentance. Bonnie’s voice was low as she revealed a confession that she had resisted in sharing, though she knew she must. “I suppose I should tell you what happened.”
Penny did not discern for some moments what had been said, though her eyes widened upon perceiving it. She was not used to anyone being truthful, not entirely, and she could sense the quickening of her heartbeat, for she was both nervous and thrilled at this fortuitous outcome.
“You do not have to tell me anything if you are not comfortable,” she urged.
Bonnie’s gaze returned to the window. “I feel I must tell someone and I am worried that, if I tell Miss Ainsley, she shall never let me out of her sight again. Or worse, she shall have my aunt and uncle called for, and they shall have me sent to an institution. If I were to see Louisa within the next ten years, it will be too soon.”
She paused to laugh softly, though the sound was sorrowful. Tears had already begun to well in her eyes. Perceiving the gravity of the situation, Penny remained silent, waiting patiently for her companion to reveal what she must. There was silence for two minutes before Bonnie was able to summon the courage she needed. She turned her gaze towards Penny, her tone candid, despite all that she felt.
“I am not entirely sure what I was hoping for nor how I came to the conclusion, but I went to the river in the hope of... of parting with this world and searching for the next.” She paused to remove a tear that had begun to pool from her lid. “I went there in a haze of some sort, though I had not decided then that this was my intention. When I arrived there, I felt drawn to the water. I felt as if I could feel them with me.” She glanced fearfully at Penny before returning her gaze downward. “My parents and Ainmire. It felt as if I could sense them and I wanted to be with them.” Her voice began to quiver but she did not cease. “Nothing has felt the same since they passed away and it felt as if everyone leaves me, at some time or another, and with Yvonne...” A small sob emitted from her, though she repressed it, wiping her eyes adamantly. Nevertheless, the woe that she felt was apparent in her voice. “She left so suddenly and it was my fault. I could hardly think or feel. I did not know what to do. I could not sleep...”
She had become gradually hurried in her speech until she was almost incoherent. Her tears had become too numerous to ignore, the compulsion of her chest too painful, and she inhaled deeply. Penny pressed her hand, her little fingers wrapped around Bonnie’s, whose hand enveloped hers as greatly as her own sister’s had done. Attempting to smile, Bonnie assured her, silently, that she was well, removing a fresh handkerchief from her robe, since the other was now sodden.
It was not until she was almost completed that Penny realised that she had seen the silk before. The stitched canary of YD in the corner of the kerchief, the family crest, was indisputable in its design. She stared at it in amazement, for Penny knew it was a favourite of her sister’s, though she realised, in that moment, she had not viewed it for some time. To think her sister had given it to their neighbour was both warming and plaintive within itself. This reverie was interrupted by Bonnie, who had composed herself to a degree that she could return to her clarification of all that had occurred.
“I stood there and all I could think of was that I wanted to go into the water and submerge into it, and keep sleeping and sleeping. I could not say if I truly wanted to... to sleep forever or if, perhaps, I wanted to rest properly for once. But I wanted to be in the water and to be under it.”
As she listened, Penny hoped to compose herself, to be a pillar of strength in Bonnie’s hour of need, but the suffering her friend had undergone was grievous to her. She bit onto her lip to prevent herself from weeping, yet, moments later, she burst into a fit of tears. Beside her, Bonnie continued, their hands grasping onto each other firmly, this simple touch tethering themselves to one another in the midst of their affliction.
“I did not want to re-emerge,” Bonnie admitted. “But then, I panicked and I came back to the surface. I do not think any particular desire drew me back other than my natural instinct to breathe. If that did not hinder me, I might have stayed there.”
Between her sobs, Penny declared in her anguish- “Oh, Bonnie...”
She engulfed her within her embrace, clinging onto her as she wept. Bonnie merely reciprocated the gesture, both grasping each other until they had begun to compose themselves. A fresh handkerchief was produced for Penny, who had merely wiped most of her tears and her nose onto her dress, whilst Bonnie continued to use the one she had been gifted by the eldest Miss Davers.
“I did not mean to upset you,” Bonnie atoned.
Penny shook her head, vehemently. “You must never apologise. I can only atone too for the way you have felt, for the melancholy that has troubled you to a degree that not even I was aware of.”
Bonnie reciprocated the motion.
“You were not to know,” she protested. Observing the girl as she wiped her face and blew her nose, she declared, abashedly- “I have engaged with many sins, in Catholicism and in Hinduism. I have not been as good an attendant to the Gods as I should have been nor to myself. Last night and this morning, I have thought constantly on my karma (209), my goodwill, my piety, all that of which I must be mindful, and I have come to the conclusion that I have not conducted myself as I should have. I have not been a good friend or daughter either, nor a good ward. You see, I must do better.” Upon heeding the consolation that the girl was certain to emit, Bonnie added, softly- “I must try. After all that has occurred, I feel as if my eternal soul is accursed. The prospect frightens me. I really must try to do better, to be better.”
“You are not so lost as that,” Penny objected. “There is hope for you still. We must focus on you regaining your strength and your spirit! All of that will come in time. You must not burden yourself with those thoughts when you are not yet capable of addressing them in their entirety. In the meantime, I am sure the Gods will be forgiving. We are their children, are we not? We may stray or disobey, but that does not mean we are not still loved. You are very much loved, Bonnie, and not solely by God.”
For the first time since the departure of her neighbour, Bonnie smiled, genuinely. The words were a comfort to her and she perceived that the insensibility that had developed around her heart had begun to thaw. Reaching across, Bonnie patted Penny’s countenance with the handkerchief she had provided her, concerned that the girl continued to use her sleeve, despite the cloth that lay in her lap. Their hands had not once released their grasp on each other.
There had not been a time, where Bonnie could recall, where they had been so affectionate with one another but she perceived how desperately they both needed consolation, both reaching out towards each other when they felt abandoned by all others. The way they clung adamantly to their companion was testament to that sensibility.
Once she had finished cleaning the girl’s face, she leant forward in a confidential manner, whispering, urgently- “Penny, you must not tell Yvonne! If you have written to her, please do not tell her what has happened.”
The youngest Miss Davers leant back, her mouth and brow down-turning in her consternation.
“She would want to know...”
“It will only bother her,” Bonnie insisted, shaking her head, earnestly. “She does not want that.”
“That is not true!” exclaimed Penny. “She would come back if she knew. She would come back this instant to see you.”
Observing the disbelief in her neighbour’s countenance, Penny could not repress the urge to defend her sister. For all of her faults, she knew the woman cared for their friend and that she would do her utmost to attend to her, if she were to require it. Yvonne had never faltered in her familial duty, remaining at the Park when she was requested or required, genuinely attentive to the health of her sister or mother. If she were to receive a missive with the news of Bonnie’s illness, Penny did not falter in her belief that Yvonne would return home instantly, regardless of all that had occurred between them. She had always been reliable in that matter and she knew that Yvonne had enfolded Bonnie in her heart, even if she could not admit it to anyone.
Wilfully, she appended- “She would!”
Bonnie peered across the room to avoid her gaze, her features acrimonious at the suggestion.
“She will not return. Not for me,” she remarked. “She could not even stay for me.”
Penny was silent, tentative in the circumstance that she distressed her neighbour, though she felt justified in her opinion. She knew that her neighbour had been the one to experience the dreadful illness, that she was also no longer in any grave or immediate danger, and that she was, therefore, entitled to dictate how she was to approach the situation. Fathoming this, Penny relented to Bonnie’s request, though she could not entirely agree.
“I shall not at present but I cannot lie to her, Bonnie. I am waiting on her letter, so I have not yet had chance to inform her of your illness. If you wish, I shall refrain from mentioning it but she shall discover it someday. When she returns, there may be mention of it. If not from me, from someone else. Neither Miss Ainsley nor Doctor Kensley are known for their discretion.”
One incident was recalled to mind which she knew contradicted her statement, for she knew the practitioner could be discrete, though she did not wish to mention the event, particularly as it was singular and did not necessarily indicate he would be discrete again, nor did she wish to disclose the matter to anyone.
Assuredly, Bonnie scoffed. “Miss Ainsley will not tell her. She is too ashamed.”
Repressing a hum of dissatisfaction, Penny pressed her lips together, her mouth thinning.
“All I can promise is that I shall not tell her in my letters,” she declared. “If she is to discover it in the future, I will try my utmost to keep it between us, but I cannot lie. I know that she is not the most capable of communicating her feelings, else she would be here, but she cares for you deeply.” Noting another expression of dubiety upon her companion’s features, she insisted, sharply- “She does! I know my sister well enough to be certain in how she conducts herself. If she were to hear of this, she would return. I know she would.”
Bonnie wiped the remnants of tears, her voice emotional still, but her features had steeled, an austere demeanour forming at the allusion of Yvonne.
“I do not need coddling, though I appreciate your concern,” was the brusque response. “After yesterday, I have thought on how I shall proceed and I think I need time to improve on myself and my situation without depending on anyone else.” She hesitated. “Though I hate to admit it, Yvonne was right and so was Miss Ainsley. So were you. I have become too dependent on her and that was unfair. For everyone. I must be my own person.” Bonnie became tearful once more, her bottom lip protruding in its customary motion, and she refrained from speaking for some moments, before declaring, woefully: “But I do miss her. So very much.”
Penny stared across at her, wistfully. “I miss her too but we can live our lives without her.” In an attempt to be cheerful, her voice lilted. “She is travelling, so we should have an excursion of our own! I promise you, we shall go to York.” As her friend raised her gaze to meet hers, Penny smiled, consolingly. “It will do us both good.”
Her hand pressed her neighbour’s in assurance, her gaze earnest. It was this innocence of feeling that induced Bonnie to attempt to smile, though her lips had thinned as she pressed them together. She nodded in resolution and acknowledgement.
“All right,” she uttered. “We shall go.”
Penny squealed in delight, enveloping her arms around Bonnie’s neck and embracing her tightly. The motion caused the woman to hum in amusement and astonishment, though her features revealed her dubiety, her dread, at the thought of travel, particularly to acquaint herself with a friend of the Davers. Undoubtedly, Mrs Alston was a friend of Yvonne’s, having heard her name mentioned briefly before. This did not reconcile her to the journey, though she wished deeply to alter her circumstance and, with no other understanding of how to do so, conceded to the idea as the only one worth venturing at that moment in time. Bonnie did not know what else she may do.
Chapter Notations
209. In Buddhism and Hinduism, karma is a concept that equates to the deeds, efforts, and work of a person in their lifetime and the consequences, whether good and bad, that lead to reincarnation. If they reach the highest form of karma, the cycle of reincarnation is ended and the person attains ‘true death’, which results from their spiritual enlightenment. In Sanskrit, rebirth is known as samsara and release (the end of birth and death) is moksha. Moksha is a term also adopted in Jainism and Sikhism.