Chapter 1 – Wives and Husbands

Emma de los Nardos

This year I became enchanted by Gaskell's Wives and Daughters and the BBC adaptation, both of which I had never heard of before.

My story starts before the final scenes of the book and movie, and attempts to "fill in" where Gaskell left off. I thought that the 1999 BBC adaptation with Justine Waddell and Anthony Howell was amazing. They did a great job of creatively interpreting the end – including the heros' journey to Africa (together!) – so I have kept some of those plot commentaries as well.

It is rated M for future content. Relationships between men and women were fascinating in the Victorian era, and I am not going to deny myself the opportunity to explore Molly and Roger's romance!

-Emma de los Nardos

Molly Gibson had denied that there was anything wrong, and yet Roger sensed the difference in her behavior towards him. To be sure, glimpses of the old Molly came out –almost despite herself, he thought, for as soon as she blessed him with a smile or a small confidence, she seemed to turn away from him, as if reminding herself that their old friendliness was too forward.

Roger Hamley puzzled over this change even as he began to wonder if, maybe, he had been mistaken in thinking of Molly as a "little sister" all of these years. He remembered how her pale face had glowed above her white evening dress, at the house party at the Towers. She was, as Lady Harriet had promised, the prettiest woman there, and yet Molly herself had been surprised to see her own reflection in the mirror, bedecked in white flowers and matching silk. For once Mrs. Gibson had allowed Molly to have a dress made up in the simplest fashion possible, and it suited her in a way that her brilliant plaid dress or her plain muslin house gowns had never done. Roger had considered this change as he watched her at the Cumners' reception. Either Molly had grown more beautiful in his absence, or he had never been able to see past her rather childish clothing to perceive the woman she had become.

It was not like Molly to think of herself as beautiful or even as someone who might attract the attentions of others. She had let Cynthia play that part, when Cynthia had lived with them, and had always been a bit afraid of the consequences of showing one's charm, as it had led Cynthia to so many entanglements. But Molly felt comfortable on Sir Charles' arm, knowing that he had only the friendliest intentions towards her. She rather liked being shown around the great rooms of the Towers on the arm of a pleasant gentleman, and feeling the admiring glances of the other men and women there as they considered the handsome young couple. She could not help notice, among them, Roger Hamley's gaze. How she wished that he would come and talk to her! She wished it, and yet she also held back from him, with a newfound shyness that both puzzled and piqued him.

He was a guest of honor that evening, but little good it did him, he thought at the time, if the only woman whose opinion he cared about was doted upon by Lady Harriet's wealthy London cousin. He was relieved to learn that Molly had met Sir Charles only during that week's visit, and yet he couldn't put a finger on why he felt such relief. Molly? Little Molly Gibson? How could it be that he was jealous of her intimacy with another man, when well he knew that she could have been his years ago, if he had only asked?

Roger thought that Molly might let some of her old self come through, if only he could get her away from the stately surroundings of the Towers and back into the familiar rooms of Hamley Hall, where they had first met and where she had always been so willing to share confidences with him. But Roger did not know that Molly had overheard Mr. Hollingford's conjecture that she was "setting her cap" at him, and had then decided that she would not act in any but the most proper of ways around Roger. His father noticed the change in her manner, as did Aimee, but Roger was the one who felt it the most keenly. Molly did not seem to notice that he had planned the days' events especially for her, nor that he was ever waiting for a moment alone with her to ask her how she had been, and what she thought, and what she planned to do now, and all of the other questions that he felt just might burst out of him if he did not manage to see her alone. He couldn't pin down exactly what he wanted to ask her – very deliberately avoiding the most important question of all – and yet he was aware of an intense longing to be with her and to know her. He reflected that he did not know Molly Gibson very well, after all. It suddenly seemed very important that he did know her, though he couldn't say why. He only knew that he was home at last and, contrary to his expectations, he found that it wasn't Cynthia Kirkpatrick whom he wished to know better, but rather Molly Gibson!

The afternoon that his specimens arrived at the Hall from Africa, he called Molly in to see them. "It's the new stuff that I had sent home from Africa. It's just arrived."

It hurt him to see how she paused, turned, then turned back to consider his invitation.

"Won't you come and have a look?" he asked. She still seemed to hesitate. "I thought you would be interested."

Molly couldn't lie, "I am interested," she said, "Of course I am!"

"Well, come on then," he said. She came down the stairs and joined him beside the microscope. He had taught her how to use one of these, several years ago. He looked at her as she looked through the lens, her gaze focused on the miniature, foreign specimen.

"That's the one you did the drawing of," she said.

"You remembered it!"

"Of course I remembered it," she retorted, sounding a little cross. "I remember everything you wrote in your letters." She looked at him reproachfully with her long, gray eyes. He swallowed several times, in discomfort. Roger felt as if he had been scolded – but for what? Molly bent down to the microscope again, hiding her face from him careful stare. He was aware of how close he was to her. He could smell the soap that she used – roses – and realized that she must have taken a bath that morning. The thought made him flush. Where had he been that morning? It must have been after breakfast, for she had appeared at the table as early as he had. He remembered their awkward silence after they greeted each other and it became apparent that no one else would be joining them for the meal. Afterwards, he had taken a stroll on the grounds, examining the trees that he had planted when he was last there. She must have used the solitary morning to prepare her toilet. Even though she was a guest, Roger knew that Molly had precious little time to herself when she was at the Towers. He smelled the roses again and, unwittingly, imagined what it would be like to touch her cheek. Feigning interest in the object under the microscope, he moved close next to her. His nearness startled her and she raised her head suddenly, crashing with his own. Molly cried out in pain and Roger, alarmed, said "I've hurt you!"

Now he put his hands around her neck, turning her head from side to side to examine it for any bruises. He was touching her, just as he had imagined. Her skin was hot, almost feverish, under his fingers. He could feel her pulse beating quickly and wondered if he had scared her. It hurt him to think that Molly, whom he had known for so long, could ever be frightened of him. It did not occur to him that perhaps Molly was just as discomfited by his closeness as he was by hers.

It had been such a long time since Roger had touched anyone, much less held another in his arms. He and the squire were close but not given to open displays of affection. Lady Hamley had caressed her sons often with a mother's soft touch, but Roger had not felt her fingers in several years, nor would he ever again. In Africa, he had spent his days in the company of other men – strong, sturdy chaps who carted his belongings and prepared his camp. He was not close to any of them, except in the companionable way that traveling fellows are, and neither was he tempted by the African women that some of them had brought to their tents. In principle, from a purely scientific stance, reproduction interested him, but he far preferred the social intercourse of British woman to the rough speak of the bush women, whose language he could barely understand. He wanted a woman who could read his letters and critique his reasoning with her clear mind. He wanted a companion who, like his men, could travel with him and share in the delight of an African sky or a newfound insect species. Roger knew that he needed a wife who was his equal in mind, but as he held Molly's face between his hands he thought of how often he had neglected the body in his consideration of who would make an ideal partner! He had been charmed by Cynthia's beauty and pleasant discourse, but to him she had always seemed like a sort of fairy bride, a charming pixie whose heart lay just beyond his reach. In his hands, Molly was flesh and blood, a woman.

With Roger's hands around her, Molly could not have said anything for the world. Even as his eyes scanned her face for signs of distress, she found herself searching for something – anything – to look at besides the open look of love and care on his face. Her eyes settled on his trim dark waistcoat and the white billows of his shirt sleeves. It was a hot day and Roger had been carrying boxes in and out of the house all afternoon. She smelled the faint scent of his perspiration and noticed how he had started to breath more heavily since they had knocked heads. She would have liked to have attributed her own dizziness to the force of their heads knocking together, but she suspected that it was something more than pain than made her tremble and seek to pull away from him.

Roger didn't want to let her go. Her warm skin provoked a similar flush through his entire body. He felt his legs tense and he wished that the servants were not so near, so that he could pull Molly to himself and hold her in his arms, comfort her, tell her that he had been so wrong about Cynthia. What a fool he had been! Now Molly Gibson – "little Molly" as the squire would have said – now she was a woman. There was nothing childlike or little about her, except perhaps the slender curve of her waist. Roger thought he might like to put his hands around her waist and lift her to him, hold her to him, span her corset around with his broad hands. All of this went through his head as she struggled to free herself from his grasp.

"Tell me what the matter is," he said. She looked up and down again. "You're red, aren't you?" Molly was surprised that he would comment on her appearance at such a time, and surprised that he spoke his mind so freely with her. He took his hands off of her neck but was reluctant to break the connection between them and moved his hands downwards, keeping her upper arms within his grasp. He would not look away from her and she was breathing almost as heavily as he was now, caught in the directness of his gaze. "Have I upset you?" he asked.

"No, no," she gasped, shaking her head. She heard the footsteps of one of the servants, returned from outdoors. Pulling away from him, she murmured, "You don't understand!" Roger watched as she ran from the hall, up the stairs and away from him.

Later, in her own room, Molly rehearsed the scene over in her mind. Roger – could he ever understand her? Could he understand how hurt she was by his engagement – or whatever he wished to call it – with Cynthia, or how tired she was of being taken for granted by him and everybody else? She was sweet Molly Gibson to all of Hollingford, her brief association with Mr. Preston now forgotten, and Molly resented the part that she had come to play, both within the county and within the Squire's household. She was "like a daughter" to Squire Hamley, that much he had said, and he welcomed her openly. But was she really just a sister to Roger Hamley? Why could he not see that she loved him, and had loved him all along? Ever since that day when he had discovered her crying in the garden over her father's new wife, she had admired him and longed for his approval in all things. She had tried so hard to be a good daughter to Mrs. Gibson and a good sister to Cynthia, even taking Cynthia's place in the mouths of the town gossips. But now Molly was tired of so much goodness. Wasn't she a woman, too? Didn't she have her own needs, as well as Cynthia or Mrs. Gibson or Roger had theirs?