Free Love and Freindship and Other Delusions by Beth Andrews Page B

dearest?’
    â€˜By no means.’ She shook her head in a decided negative. ‘I shall never be able to conquer my tender sensibility enough to enquire after my beloved. I do not think I can even bear to hear his name again.’
    â€˜Never,’ I vowed, ‘shall I again offend your feelings by mentioning him.’
    â€˜Thank you, my dear friend.’
    I looked around once more, observing the wild scenery and breaking out rhapsodically, ‘Look, Sophia, at the noble grandeur of those elms which shelter us from the eastern zephyr!’
    â€˜Yes, the elms.’ Sophia gave a sigh of utmost sadness. ‘Alas, they remind me of my Augustus. Like them, he was tall and majestic. Do not mention elms, my Laura.’
    â€˜No elms,’ I murmured, committing this to memory.
    In the meantime, I wondered silently what I might say which would not burden Sophia by reminding her of her husband. The sun might remind her of his hair, and the moon of his teeth. The stars would recall the twinkle in his eyes and the water his chamber pot. For several minutes I remained silent, until Sophia’s plaintive voice prodded me to attempt further conversation.
    â€˜Why do you not speak, Laura?’ she asked, in some concern. ‘This silence leaves me to my own thoughts, which always return to my Augustus.’
    â€˜What a beautiful sky!’ I declared, which was the first thing that occurred to me. ‘Just look how the azure is varied by those delicate streaks of white cloud.’
    Sophia glanced up at the sky in question for a moment, then looked down as tears began to stream from her eyes.
    â€˜Oh, Laura,’ she wailed, ‘do not distress me by calling my attention to an object which so cruelly reminds me of Augustus’s blue satin waistcoat with white stripes.’
    â€˜Forgive me, Sophia.’
    â€˜With pleasure, Laura.’
    Her tears gradually ceased, but the silence continued for some minutes. In truth, I had exhausted my store of innocuous comments and knew not what else to say.
    Happily, the uncomfortable silence was broken in a most unexpected manner. A low, rumbling noise in the distance had been growing ever nearer, and suddenly there was the sound of horses braying wildly in fear, followed by a terrific crash and the groans of men in severe distress.
    Turning our heads, Sophia and I at once spied an overturned phaeton upon the road only a few hundred yards away from us. We surveyed the wreckage with considerable interest as we sat there in mute contemplation for several seconds.
    â€˜What a fortunate occurrence,’ I remarked at last to my companion. ‘Now your mind must be diverted from more melancholy thoughts.’
    â€˜Yes indeed,’ she agreed. ‘I am now so engrossed in the scene before me that I can hardly think of anything else.’
    At this, we both stood up, craning our necks in order to obtain a better view of the calamity.
    â€˜To think,’ I wondered aloud, ‘that but a few moments ago these unlucky travellers were elevated so high, but now are laid low and sprawling in the dust.’
    By now the horses had managed to break free of the wreckage and were running off, leaving the stricken passengers to their fate.
    â€˜That phaeton,’ Sophia said, pointing to the carnage, ‘and the life of Cardinal Wolsey, provide us ample reflection on the uncertain enjoyments of this world, do they not?’
    â€˜It cannot be denied.’
    Sophia placed one delicate finger against her chin, considering what to do next. It was a philosophical and ethical conundrum, to be sure.
    â€˜Should we perhaps go and see whether we can provide aid to those so afflicted?’
    â€˜That might relieve the tedium of our day,’ I said.
    We strolled towards the wreckage, picking our way slowly and carefully through the tall grass, where thorns encroached and would have torn our delicate skirts had we not been so mindful of them. So we