Work Text:
Emmy Lockhart was easily Jane’s best student. If she had been born anywhere but a small village, she might well have made something of herself, but her parents couldn’t afford to send her away for more schooling, and all that was in the area was the school Jane had taken over. She did her best to recommend books for her to read, and to move her up to the more advanced lessons where she could, but that only did so much.
It would only work for so long, too. Jane would have Emmy under her care for a few years more, and then she would be married or put to work or both. What good would her learning do then? Poetry had little use in textiles.
The thought came to her more and more as Emmy grew up, and as her other students did as well. Albert Holland too had the seeds of greatness inside him, but he would follow his father into fishing. Already he had to miss school from time to time to go out on the boat.
What was she preparing them for? Nothing more than what they might otherwise have expected?
Thunder cracked outside the little cottage. Another storm was sweeping in off the sea, carrying with it dark dreams. Jane had trouble sleeping on stormy nights. Especially so close to the sea, it made her feel small and all but insignificant. She rarely could sleep before the storm began, and so she often had to sit up and let it pass her by.
Most of the time, she sat by the window, watching the storm. It seemed to call to her, in some strange, morbid way. Lightning flashed in the clouds, and another thunderclap sent her heart racing wildly in her chest. The night sky was entirely covered up by clouds. All that could be seen were the blue-white flickers darting through them.
From the bed, Helen coughed. The sound jolted Jane from her reverie, and she hurried from the window, picking up her lamp from the table as she went. It didn’t give off much light, but it was enough to see by, and it was warm and comforting.
As Jane grew closer, Helen turned to the light, her eyes fluttering open. She looked pale and miserable, and the bitterly cold thought struck Jane that perhaps this would be the time her health failed her for good. It was a familiar notion, almost as familiar as her own face in the mirror. It was miserable, even as it was almost comforting.
“Jane?” Helen called. She started to sit up a little but soon fell back onto her pillows with another cough.
“I’m here.” Jane took her wonted spot by the bed, setting the lamp on the end table. “You should be asleep.”
Helen smiled faintly. “So should you. Come to bed, Jane.”
It was hard to deny Helen anything, but the clap of thunder almost directly above kept her frozen in her chair. The cottage seemed to tremble from the impact, and Jane herself trembled in turn.
Helen sat up a little, or tried to. It wasn’t long before she fell back onto the pillows. “The storm?” she said.
Jane nodded. “I’ll be all right.”
Helen already seemed to know what she wasn’t saying. Something in her could see further than most people could. She never said it was because she had passed so close to death, but Jane thought that must be part of it. Something inside her had been opened.
Helen stretched out her hand, and Jane took it, pressing the cold, thin fingers between her own. “Stay by me,” she said. “Forget the storm for a while.”
It was utterly impossible to forget the storm. Jane wished she could say so, but Helen looked at her with such pleading in her clear eyes that she found she could say nothing at all. Instead, she drew her little chair closer to her friend and drew that little hand toward her heart, as though somehow by feeling the steady beat Helen might be inspired toward further life.
If I could pass some of my own life on to you, Jane thought, I would. I would pour my heart into yours, dear friend.
If Helen could hear her thoughts – which felt heartbreakingly unlikely – she gave no sign. She only curled her fingers a little around Jane’s palm. She looked so small, so fragile, but there was something so steady in the way she held on, the way she looked up at Jane with a calm gaze.
“Shall I tell you a story?” Helen asked.
Jane smiled a little. The question was something like what she would have asked the children at her school, when a storm swept by during the day. Then, she had to be the strong one and try not to show how anxious she was, because the students would be frightened still further by her fear. Now, she could be fragile.
She didn’t like the thought. She hoped Helen didn’t resent for her weakness.
“You ought to rest,” Jane said, but she already knew Helen would speak on. Her friend would want to comfort her, and Jane was selfish enough to want that comfort.
“Once,” Helen said, “there were two girls.”
“And were their names Helen and Jane?”
Helen looked up, eyes seeming to flicker out of her storytelling trance. “If you wish to tell the story yourself, you need only say so.”
Jane smiled in spite of herself. “Go on.”
Helen’s gaze slipped away from her again, seeming to drift off into the ether. Jane loved to see her thus, as though she were connected to another world. It sent a thrill through her, as though she herself could find her way to another world than this one. Helen, of course, would say that the only other world was that of the Lord (she never would speak of the damned), but she had not looked out on the sea when a storm drifted far from shore, or inland as the fog gradually faded away from the morning sun. Then, it seemed they were on the boundary of some other world, one that both frightened and fascinated her.
Jane lay on the bed beside Helen, nestling into the covers to warm her friend. Helen made room for her, then drew closer, resting her head on Jane’s shoulder. She felt light and frail, but there was solidity in her head, and presence. She was there, and Jane could no longer imagine a world in which she was not.
“Once,” Helen said, “there were two girls, who grew up in a little village beside a great lake. The lake might as well have been a sea, as far as they knew, for it stretched out to the horizon and beyond, and the men of their village had only fishing boats that dared not go far from shore. All knew that those who went out of sight of the village were lost forever, never to return.
“But for the most part, the men were wise, and the women were wise as well. They would not allow their husbands and brothers to go far, nor would they allow their daughters and sisters to marry such a thoughtless man. Life on a shore is a fraught life, Jane, always full of danger. Those who have spent generations there know how to survive because they must, and because it has been passed down through the family line long enough that it has become part of their blood.
“Our two girls knew it. One of them did, rather. The other was a little… less wise.
“The wise girl, by the way, was named Bridget. The other was named Flora.
“Bridget and Flora grew up together. Their houses were side by side, and their mothers were friendly enough that they might have been sisters. The two girls were constantly in and out of one another’s homes, more so than any other children in the village. Nearly all around them believed they were sisters. With such love between them, how could they not be?
“They were not, of course. They were something far closer.
“As they grew up, they found themselves falling in love with men who were close enough that they might be brothers. James and Aaron were their names. The two of them often went fishing together, and they believed that going together brought them better luck. Whether this was true or not, no one could say. Still, no one could deny that they always brought in a good catch, and that they always looked out for one another. It would surely be a relief to whoever wed them that they had such a strong friendship, for they would always return from a fishing trip.
“James wed Bridget. Aaron took Flora as his wife. For a time, they were happy.
“One winter, James fell ill with influenza. Both wisely decided he ought to take to his bed. Bridget would nurse him until he was well again, and the rest of the village would make sure the two of them were well looked after until James could provide for his wife again.
“This was the first time Aaron had been away from his friend for so long. At first, he thought to spend all his time by James’s side, to ensure he would recover well, but Bridget and Flora both reminded him he had other responsibilities. He could no longer be solely dedicated to his friend. He had a wife to consider as well.
“So he gave in, and for the first time in his life went fishing alone.
“There was a thick fog that night, and it wasn’t long before Aaron’s boat was lost from view. At first, Flora was not concerned. Aaron knew the lake as well as any fisherman might. He would know when to turn back. He would know how far to row, and might even sense how far his boat was drifting. He would come back to her. He always had before.
“Neither Aaron nor Flora were especially wise. If either one of them were, he would have remained at home.
“The next morning, as the fog lifted, Aaron’s boat drifted toward shore, utterly empty.
“The village assumed he had been lost. He would not have been the first, and he surely would not be the last. Bridget mourned for her friend’s loss, and she mourned for her husband’s as well, though she had not yet told him, fearing he was too weak to face the news. The whole village mourned, and they prepared to support Flora in her widowhood until she was able to marry again.
“The only one who did not mourn was Flora herself. She looked out to the gray-blue lake with eyes that were frighteningly clear and said, ‘He is not dead. He will return to me.’
“The village decided she was mad. How could they not? They walked gently around her, and made sure she was fed and cared for, and mentioned her husband as little as possible. In time, they hoped, she would heal. If not, they would protect her. She was one of their own, after all, and well-beloved, even if she could not be trusted with herself.
“Then, some months later, the fog rolled in again, thicker than before.”
Helen broke off, coughing. Jane started. She had not realized how long her friend had spoken. It was at greater length than she should have tried, and she had done it all to ease Jane’s mind.
The worst of it was that it had worked. Until Helen stopped, Jane had been lost in the story.
“You should sleep,” Jane said, pressing a kiss to Helen’s brow. “I shouldn’t have tired you so.”
“I can bear it,” Helen murmured, though she sounded weary and faint. If Jane thought back, she rather thought her friend had sounded so just before she had begun to cough. “You’ll have your work in the morning. I have little enough to occupy me.”
It was true. Helen did what she could to keep up the house, but often enough Jane found herself facing the chores. She didn’t mind. She remembered too well the illness which had left Helen weak and fragile.
The others in town didn’t know. Jane wondered sometimes what they said about the two of them behind their backs.
She wondered what they would say about this moment, could they see it.
Jane drew Helen closer to her, pulling her face toward hers. Helen already looked half-asleep, but her eyes fluttered a little and her lips curved into a smile as she drew closer to Jane.
“Did it work?” she murmured. “Have you forgotten the storm?”
“Entirely,” Jane said, and pressed a kiss to Helen’s lips. They were dry and warm, and deeply comforting.
Helen smiled against the kiss, and the smile seemed to warm Jane from within. Even when she drew back and settled into the bed, drawing the blanket up over the pair of them, she felt warm and secure. The storm might rage on outside, but in here they were safe.
“Don’t forget to turn out the light,” Helen murmured.
Blushing, Jane did so, and they were plunged into darkness. The only illumination came from flashes of lightning, but it was easy now to put those from her mind to sleep.
The day after the storm was clear and bright, the air as crisp as if it had been washed clean. Jane’s students were restless, even little Emmy, and she imagined it was nothing more than the change in the air that made it so. She could not get through a day of teaching if she constantly worried whether her own distraction was affecting them. That concern must wait until she was at home.
There would be distractions there as well. All the way back through the village, she thought of Helen, of whether she would have been well enough to clean the house, of whether she was still abed, of whether she had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Helen would want her to pray, and Jane did try, but her fear twisted up the words in her mind until all that was left was a desperate plea.
When she reached their little cottage, she found Helen sitting outside by their vegetable garden, her back resting against the wall. Fear pierced through Jane like a blast of wind, and she ran forward, nearly tripping over her shoes as she did. They felt clumsy, and heavy with mud from the road, but in her fear she felt as though she flew.
Helen looked up when she had drawn closer and offered a wan smile. “I’m really all right,” she said, though her voice was just loud enough for Jane to hear her. “I thought to come out for a bit of air, and to see whether there were any weeds in the garden. I did pull a few, but even that was too much for me.” She gestured to a little pile of greenery beside her. It really didn’t look like much, but even that small effort had tired her.
“The weeds will keep for another day,” Jane said, kneeling beside her friend. Helen’s cheeks were flushed, but when Jane pressed a hand to her brow, she felt no warmer than was common. She let out a sigh of relief. For all Helen said she was strong, the worry of a fever often felt like too much to bear.
“They’ll keep too well,” Helen said, and Jane thought she caught a touch of humor in her friend’s eyes, “but we’ll let them do so. There must be some plan, even for them.”
The plan, Jane thought, was to keep her industrious and occupied when she wasn’t at the school. She didn’t say so aloud. “Are you able to come inside?” she asked, taking Helen’s hands, ready to help her to her feet. “You may be more comfortable there. There will be less mud, at any rate.”
“I’m ready. But before we go in –” She broke off. Jane’s heart fluttered wildly.
“What?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
Helen shook her head and freed one of her hands to gesture at her chest; she was only catching her breath. Jane waited, regretting her impatience, until Helen said, “Look at the sky.”
Jane looked up. Above her, the sky was a brilliant blue, so strong it nearly hurt her eyes. Still, she stared, not challenging it but hungering for it. She felt almost as though she could devour it with nothing more than her eyes and her mind if she cared to.
Then she drew Helen up and brought her in.
The cottage was small, but cozy. Helen must have thrown open the windows, for it smelled as fresh as the outdoors. Jane wished she had thought to look for some heather on her walk home, but most had likely been beaten down by the rain. It had been a powerful storm; she would have to see to their roof.
They had no parlor, nor wished for one, but there was a well-made table by the window, and Jane brought Helen to her favored chair and sat her down. “There,” she said. “Are you comfortable here?”
“Yes, quite. Only…” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Might you make some tea for me? My throat…”
“Of course.”
The stove was cold, but Jane had grown handy with fires, and she soon had a little blaze started and a kettle of water resting on it. They had tea and honey, and once she had both ready and waiting for the water to boil, she looked about to see what could be done for their dinner.
There wasn’t much. Some greens they had grown, some bread from two days before – she would need to bake more – some eggs. She was eager for the days when fruit would grow in abundance, for the bright, sweet tastes even if they weren’t half so filling as meat. Another day, she might have gone to the market to buy some fish or fowl and have it sent along to their house, but on her way to the school she had been too worried about whether their roof had been damaged, and by the time the children had left it was too late to get anything good.
Tomorrow, she told herself. She would do better tomorrow.
Helen must have seen the distress on her face. “I wish I could be more help to you, Jane. I wish I could do more than… than sit about the house and…”
Jane turned away from the cupboard, skirt swirling about her ankles in her haste. “You oughtn’t speak yet,” she said. “Not until you’ve had something to drink. We’ve enough to eat today, and I’ll see to it we have something hearty for tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll set a soup boiling, to help you get your strength back.”
Helen said nothing. Her eyes were downcast and sorrowful. Jane almost wondered whether Helen had heard her at all.
Softening, Jane walked to her side, kneeling and taking her hand. Helen turned a little, finally looking at her again, and Jane pressed her hand to her cheek, not minding the dirt on Helen’s fingers. Helen’s palm was cool and soft, and she could feel the bones through her skin.
This was a beautiful moment, wasn’t it? She didn’t know how it would look to anyone looking in on the two of them, and she didn’t care to know. Jane was sure the other people in the village speculated about them, wondering what friendship had brought them together and brought them here, debating why the two of them had never married anyone, though there were some options in the village.
(Multiple options, in fact. Jane had considered the available men from time to time, but it always seemed like an abstract exercise. Sensible as it might be to choose one of them to wed, she had not once felt the desire.)
Helen seemed to have read the thoughts in her eyes. It didn’t surprise Jane that she might. Helen had always seemed to know her better than she knew herself.
“You ought to have chosen a better friend,” Helen murmured. “One who could support you as much as you support her. There’s so little I can do for you.”
Jane thought of their emptying cupboards, of the weeds that would be waiting for her. She thought of the sweeping and dusting that had to be done, of laundry, of beating the rugs on fine days. She thought of Helen, sitting inside, so quietly whiling away her days. Often, Helen seemed content, but Jane could never tell whether she really felt so or whether she only assumed, because she was content to have Helen beside her.
She pressed Helen’s hand tighter against her cheek, half-desperate to keep it there and hold her steadily in her life. “I didn’t write to you for years because I wanted you to do something for me,” she said. “I didn’t ask you to come live with me so that you could serve me. I did those things because…” Her voice faltered, but only for a moment. “I love you, Helen. You are my dearest friend, and have been for years. I asked you here so that I might do something for you, whatever I can.”
“Jane…”
It didn’t seem as though any other words would come to Helen. Jane rose, pausing only to press her lips gently against her friend’s, in a gesture that felt like a promise and something slightly more. “We’ve enough food for tonight,” she said. “I’ll see to tomorrow when it comes. For now, drink your tea and rest. I brought you with me to care for you. If I can do that, I will be content.”
It wasn’t easy, but it was still contentment. On the stove, the kettle had begun to boil, water and air roiling within, hardly able to contain the growing heat. When Jane poured it into the cup, it softened, just as hot but looking far gentler.
What did it matter what others said? What mattered was this cottage, this room, the simple act of passing a warm cup from one pair of hands to another.
“You never finished the story.”
Helen looked up from the dress she was mending. She was well that day – better than she had been the night of the storm – and she answered Jane with a shy little smile. “I didn’t think you had remembered.”
How to answer her? How to say that of course she would remember, because she remembered everything about Helen? The sentiment was firm in her mind, but it would not resolve itself easily into words. She sat quietly for a little while, contemplating, trying to create something solid and rational out of what in her heart felt like so many winds.
(It was a storm again, another tempest. This one terrified her, but it pleased her as well. She imagined standing on a precipice, falling into it, only to find that she was caught and buoyed, carried away by it entirely. It thrilled and frightened her at once.)
Helen waited patiently, still stitching. There was little enough she could do around the house, but that little was exquisite. Jane knew that when she looked at the dress, it would be only the presence of the patch that told her it had been mended. Helen’s stitches would be small enough to be all but invisible.
She would have to answer. Helen would wait forever if there was need, but she should not have to. She was good enough to be here, with Jane. That ought to be enough for Jane to treat her well.
“I remembered it well,” she said. “The friends, Bridget and Flora, who married James and Aaron. The fog took Aaron away, when he was foolish enough to go fishing alone. Then the fog returned, and that’s where you ended.”
Helen’s smile wasn’t quite a smirk, but it was something close. There was amusement in it, and that humor rose up to her eyes, seeming to fill all her slender frame with a light beyond that which she normally seemed to reach for. It wasn’t the pure white radiance Jane had imagined filling her those times she was closest to death, but neither was it anything that seemed particularly wicked or unholy. It seemed instead wholly human, as though she were in that moment purely herself, as she was meant to be.
If Jane had not been so busy with looking over her students’ compositions and if Helen had not been so busy working, Jane would have risen and kissed her.
The thought struck her like a bolt of lightning, and for just a moment the world seemed illuminated. The urge she felt was not for one of the tender, chaste kisses the two of them shared. It was for something far more pleasurable. She might call it base if she were not so certain her love was beyond such feelings.
(Was it? How was she to know?)
Helen hardly seemed to notice Jane’s plight. She went on calmly with her work, stitching away easily, as though nothing at all had changed between them. For all Jane knew, nothing had, only that she might now understand herself a little more clearly.
“How could you forget?” Helen asked. “I left it at such a striking spot.” She smiled, warm and bright, and went on, “So the fog rolled in, and Flora – foolish woman that she was – looked out at the fog. She thought to herself, my husband is there, someplace, because within her heart she could not bring herself to believe that he had died and was lost forever. She remembered all the fairy stories she had heard, of clever wives winning back wayward and enchanted husbands, and she thought, why should I not be like those women, for surely I am as clever and foolhardy as they?
“So you see, she knew she was foolish. I could not say whether that makes her any more wise than her husband. At best, it means that she knows herself, which is rarely a bad thing.
“Flora wrapped herself in a thick woolen coat and set out from her house. She knew better than to take a boat out onto the lake. After her husband’s disappearance, no one fished in the fog any longer, and no one would be about to rescue her should she run into the trouble she knew would come.
“She did not think of Bridget, who even then sat up and looked at the fog, wondering whether she ought to leave her husband’s side and go to her friend. If she had, the story might well end differently. But when a woman marries and leaves a friend, her loyalties are torn. Whenever she is forced to choose one or the other, she must betray someone. Bridget chose to stay with her husband.
“So: Flora was alone.
“She had set out with such determination, but now as she walked through the fog, she wondered whether she would be able to do anything at all. The mist seemed to swallow up the houses, and before long she felt as though she was alone in the world. She couldn’t even tell whether she was still in the village or whether she had somehow left it without realizing. The only way she could tell she hadn’t wandered into the lake was that her feet were still on dry land, though the fog was thick enough she had to trust to her feet to know it. She could not even see that far.
“Flora walked slowly, afraid at every moment of making some wrong step. So intent was she on where her feet landed that she didn’t notice at first that someone was calling her name.
“When she did realize, she stopped, startled. Whoever called to her sounded exactly like her husband.
“‘Aaron?’ she called into the mists.
“‘Flora!’ he cried, and his voice sounded overjoyed. ‘Come to me!’
“She could not tell what lay between them, or whether she had turned toward or away from the lake. She only knew that her husband was calling to her, and she had missed his voice for so long that she could not help but to hurry forward. Before long she ran, and whether through art or miracle, nothing blocked her way. She ran toward him, calling out all the while, and he called to her in return.”
Helen fell silent and turned her attention back to her sewing. It was several seconds before Jane realized she truly had finished speaking and was not only pausing for breath.
“Is that the end?” she asked.
“It is if you wish it to be.”
Jane was silent for a while, considering. To say she did not wish it to be the end felt like she was a child, demanding more of a story be told to her. She did want more, but as she considered, she could not say whether she wanted more because she wanted to know how the story ended or because she wanted to hear Helen speaking to her.
It was likely the latter. Helen’s voice, when she took care not to strain it, was soft and gentle, like a spring breeze. If Jane could have, she would have captured it somehow, kept it in crystal to hear it again and again. (She did not know how such a fanciful notion might come to pass. She only knew that she would not speak of it aloud to Helen.) “I wish to know what you think of it,” she said. “If you are well enough to tell me.”
Helen was not silent for as long as Jane had feared she might be. She really must have felt well. “I think there are many ways to end the story,” she said. “The one I like best is the thought that Flora and Aaron did find one another again, even if it was not entirely in the world they knew. Perhaps if I had been the sort of woman to live a more ordinary life, I would rather Flora had stayed in the safety of the life laid out for her, but that was not where my life led me.” She looked up, somehow both at Jane and past her, and Jane could not tell exactly what was in her expression. It was not the wan radiance of death, but neither was it the glimmering joy like a fire in a hearth. It was something altogether different, and yet something familiar, something that tugged at Jane’s heart. “Sometimes,” she murmured, “we must leave a world behind to find what we love.”
A small thunderclap ran through Jane, and it was all she could do not to gasp in surprise. Perhaps Helen might be more aware of what she felt than she had thought.