The Clergyman's Wife

by Molly Greeley

  Mrs. Fitzgibbon reaches out but does not quite touch the paper.

  “Is that . . . ?” she says, smiling with something that looks like wonder.

  It is nowhere near a perfect likeness, but I feel a little satisfaction in looking between her and the drawing and seeing a close resemblance in the sharp jutting nose and high brow. “I only drew it from memory—I should have asked you to pose, I suppose, but I drew it on a whim.”

  “It’s beautiful.” She tilts it to better catch the firelight and squints at the details. “Thank you, Mrs. Collins.”

  Embarrassed, I reach into my reticule and take out two pennies. “I thought perhaps you could send it to your sister—so she would have some idea how you’ve changed since she saw you last.”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbon shakes her head, grinning. “Oh, goodness, she doesn’t need to know that. And I’ve never had my portrait done—I’ll be the envy of the parish.” She tries to hand the pennies back to me, but I shake my head, and after a moment she bows her head, smoothing the paper carefully against the table.

  “Now, tell me,” she says as we seat ourselves once more before the fire. “This new parson—what do you know of him?”

  “Very little, except that he has only recently taken orders, and that Lady Catherine approves of him.”

  “Is he married?”

  “I do not believe so; her ladyship did not mention a wife, and if he is so new to ordination he is likely to only now be able to support a wife when he receives this living.”

  “There now,” she says, sitting back with a satisfied air. “That is one good thing to come of your defection, Mrs. Collins—the neighborhood ladies will once again have the chance to vie for the affections of our young clergyman. It will be very amusing, I am sure.”

  IT DOES SNOW, but only lightly. I watch the flakes fall outside my parlor window until darkness hides all but my own reflection, and then I turn away.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Mr. Bolton will be able to take residence at the parsonage in a fortnight’s time,” Lady Catherine announces almost as soon as William and I have entered her drawing room. We are both startled in the process of bowing, stopping halfway down and staring at her. I am sure we must look ridiculous, yet Lady Catherine looks extremely pleased.

  “He is a very sensible young man,” she says as we take our seats. “Lady Thornton assures me he is properly grateful for this opportunity.”

  “Two weeks, ma’am?” I cannot help saying. My mind feels shocked and blank, and my voice seems to come from a great distance.

  “You cannot require more time than that to put your affairs in order, surely?” she says, brows raised.

  “No, indeed, Lady Catherine,” William hastens to say. “I have been in communication with Mr. Bennet’s attorney since he first wrote to tell me the news of my cousin’s demise. There is nothing to do but take residence at this point.”

  This is true; I know this is true. Both Elizabeth and Jane wrote to me in response to my letters of condolence, and each said separately that their sisters and mother would stay the winter with Mrs. Bennet’s sister, Mrs. Phillips, and her husband, deeming the journey to Derbyshire, where Jane and Elizabeth both have settled, too treacherous for Mrs. Bennet’s nerves during months when snow and ice are likely to make the roads slick. Mrs. Bennet herself has not replied to my letter to her, though I cannot say I am surprised.

  There really are no impediments to our taking residence at Longbourn. I swallow, hard, and am silent.

  Lady Catherine, apparently satisfied that there will be no other unnecessary objections to her plans, begins to speak of something else, and though I do my best to attend, my mind remains fixed upon thoughts of Mrs. Bennet.

  My situation is no less tenuous than hers. I think of all those years she spent wishing for a boy who never arrived; if William and I do not conceive another son, the great irony is that I will be in the same position of relying upon my family’s charity as I would have been if I had never married at all.

  A few moments pass before I realize that Lady Catherine has stopped talking; I look up to find her sharp gaze focused just behind me, her lips tightly compressed. I wait, glance at William, who looks uneasy; but it is clear that Lady Catherine has lost the thread of the conversation, such as it was. Slowly, feeling rather as though I am attempting not to startle a skittish horse, I shift so that I can look over my own shoulder, but I see nothing out of the ordinary, only Miss de Bourgh and Mrs. Jenkinson sitting on the settee near the fireplace, where they have been since before we arrived. The latter is reading silently from a small book, but the former has slipped into a light doze, her head falling forward against her chest as though her neck is simply too fragile to hold its weight.

  I look back at Lady Catherine, and her eyes snap to mine, just for a moment. Her face is open and, dare I say, vulnerable. And then her expression sours in the instant between one eyeblink and the next. I drop my gaze to my lap and wait, quite still, though my heart is suddenly thundering away within my breast.

  Lady Catherine once implied to me that she chose not to subject herself to the danger of having more children; she was fortunate that a daughter could inherit Rosings Park, and so in bearing Miss de Bourgh she felt she had done her duty to her husband and to the estate. At the time, I wondered how her ladyship’s husband felt about her decision, and whether Miss de Bourgh’s constitution had been sickly since birth, or if her frailty began after Sir Lewis’s early death, making it impossible for another, more robust child to be produced even if Lady Catherine were willing.

  Though, I suppose, were I fortunate enough to be in Lady Catherine’s position, perhaps I, too, would choose as she did. She brought a substantial fortune to her marriage, much of which has likely been invested in the estate; being the daughter of an earl, she could only have increased her husband’s standing in society; and she did produce an heir, however poorly. The argument could be made that she had already given a great deal toward the preservation of Rosings Park, and I rather admire her determination that it was unnecessary to give her very life, as too many women do in the course of bearing children. I’ve no idea how much affection existed between Sir Lewis and Lady Catherine, but I have a difficult time imagining her forming an alliance based on love, and so, presumably, a lack of relations between the two parties was no great hardship for either. But then again, I have a difficult time imagining her ladyship having much true affection for anyone, and yet the evidence of it was there just now, in her troubled expression as she watched her daughter sleep.

  At last, her ladyship begins a new topic of conversation, and I dare to look up. Lady Catherine looks just as she ever does, but I cannot shake the stunned, stupid realization that she is a mother, as well.

  FIVE DAYS HAVE passed more quickly than I could have imagined. With the help of Mrs. Baxter, I have been packing away anything that we do not absolutely need to use before we leave—there is not so much, really, for most of the things I think of as ours will remain here at the parsonage, ready for Mr. Bolton to take occupancy. I have also been visiting those parishioners whose needs are immediate, and the rest I will take leave of on Sunday, when William delivers his final sermon. We leave Kent the following Tuesday; William wrote Mrs. Bennet by express to tell her of our plans, and though I am uncomfortable with the idea that they have so little time to quit Longbourn, knowing that she and her daughters have refuge with Mr. and Mrs. Phillips only a short distance down the road made me hold my tongue. Mrs. Baxter will be grateful, at least, of the extra time to prepare the parsonage before her new master arrives.

  Martha has been weepy since she heard the news of our leaving, and I have scarcely been less so every time I pass the nursery and hear her voice raised with Louisa’s in some game or another. I asked her to come with us—the words rushed from my mouth before I could think, despite the fact that I had not even discussed such a thing with William—but Martha began to cry and said no, she could not leave her parents and her siblings, howeve
r much it grieved her to see Louisa go. I am determined to ask Lady Catherine for the favor of finding a new position for her, for without her wages, Martha’s family—all those children!—will surely suffer.

  IT IS OUR final Sunday in Hunsford, and the church is more full than is usual for this time of year. From my place at the front, I imagine I can feel dozens of eyes upon the back of my head, and I cannot help wondering whether a particular pair of eyes, dark and topped by disorderly brows, might be among them.

  “This will be my last time preaching to the good people of Hunsford parish,” William says. “As many of you already know, Mrs. Collins and I will be journeying to Hertfordshire. We are, of course, unhappy to leave you all, but are confident that you will be well cared for by Mr. Bolton, who will arrive next week to take my place. The Right Honorable Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself has selected Mr. Bolton to succeed me . . .”

  My thoughts drift away from my husband’s words and into less godly territory. I have not been allowing myself to think much about Mr. Travis these last few days, dismissing, with a violent shake of my head, those thoughts that did crop up, but I think of him now, throughout the entirety of William’s last sermon. I wish desperately that we had not parted so poorly when last we spoke. I wonder whether he regrets it, as well.

  The service ends, and I blink, startled by the sound of so many bodies rising and the din of sudden conversation. Because of the cold outside, only a few people leave; the rest choose to stay and visit, despite the close confines of the church. I am accosted by a number of ladies who want to wish me well and find that I cannot break free with any degree of politeness. I answer their questions as best I can, and accept their kind regards, and think, at last, that perhaps it is just as well, for what would I say to Mr. Travis if I did see him? What could I say here, in front of all these people?

  At last, some of the women begin to take their leave, and I feel I can breathe a little more easily. William appears at my side and guides me out of the building. Just beyond the church itself, the churchyard lies cold and bleak in the thin sunlight.

  “I will be along shortly,” I say on impulse, and leave William to the business of seeing Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh into their carriage.

  I open the churchyard gate and step through. Here is another thing I have not allowed myself to think on, but now, with our departure looming in only two days, I might not have another opportunity. I pull my cloak more tightly around my body and weave between the headstones until I reach my son’s. But I can do nothing but stare at it; though I long to press my palms flat against the earth, there are too many people about for me to be comfortable indulging in such behavior. So I stand and stand, my feet growing numb within their boots and my body shaking. I have never been especially attentive to his resting spot, but now I am abandoning it entirely. I will never see it again. There will be no one left here who knows the tiny being sleeping beneath the soil. The thought is intolerable. I stuff my fingers into my mouth and choke around them.

  “I am sorry,” I whisper at last, and go, half-running to reach the gate. When I have closed it behind me, I cannot even feel relief that no one seems to have observed my farewell, so intent am I upon not allowing myself to weep.

  I return to William, and we begin the short walk to the parsonage. He does not ask where I went, and I do not tell him, only encourage him to walk more quickly.

  We have nearly reached the house when I realize the small figure in the distance, walking slowly with his hands stuffed in his pockets, is Mr. Travis. His pace is so slow and ours so urgent that we have soon overtaken him. He gives us one quick, startled look, then nods briefly as we pass. There is a pain in my chest, a physical pain. It expands with each of my inhalations, but when I exhale it does not grow smaller again. I look back to find him watching me, our eyes catching, holding, my mouth a little open, his a firm, unhappy line. I only look away when I almost stumble, William catching hold of my waist to steady me. My cheeks are hot as I murmur a thank-you. When I glance back once more, a little farther on, Mr. Travis is walking even more slowly, his eyes cast down upon the frozen lane.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Our final day in Kent is spent in such a flurry of preparations that I do not have time to think at all. Our clothes are packed and our trunks taken downstairs by John; Mrs. Baxter and I have left out only William’s and my clothing for tonight, when we will attend our last dinner at Rosings Park, and our traveling clothes for tomorrow.

  Louisa seems baffled by so much activity, and she goes to bed early, exhausted by being so alert to our movements throughout the day. I stroke her hair as she drifts into sleep for the final time in this cot, in this nursery. Tomorrow, though she does not know it, she begins her new life as a gentleman’s daughter. I am glad for her, truly, and I hold on to that gladness as her breathing slows and deepens, and as I creep from the nursery and into my bedchamber and begin to ready myself for dinner.

  “YOU ARE LOOKING very tired this evening, Mrs. Collins,” Lady Catherine says over the soup.

  “I have been very busy, ma’am—”

  “No doubt you have been too excited to sleep much. I can understand it, though I must remind you of the importance of a good night’s sleep; you are becoming mistress of an estate, and you cannot allow tiredness to keep you from your responsibilities.”

  “Indeed, Lady Catherine, I have no intention of—”

  “I remember Longbourn as being smallish, with an unfortunate arrangement of rooms, but it is larger than what you are accustomed to, at least, and I am sure with some guidance you will make what you can of it. No doubt your mother will help, and I would by no means consider it an imposition if you were to write me with any questions that you might have.”

  I feel very removed from this conversation; my voice echoes oddly in my ears as I say, “Thank you, Lady Catherine. That is most generous of you.”

  “You are magnanimity itself, Your Ladyship,” William says.

  Lady Catherine accepts our compliments with all the graciousness I have come to expect.

  “You will be with your family at Christmas,” she says. “That will please you, I expect, though I suppose you will miss the splendor of the holiday here. Still, I will send you Cook’s recipe for rum cake, and that should cheer you. I cannot count the number of people who have sat at my table at Christmas and told me it is the finest they have ever tasted.”

  When the time comes at last to take our leave, her ladyship sends us off with much advice about our journey and with happy wishes for our new life, echoed listlessly by Miss de Bourgh. So many words are required to express William’s gratitude toward her ladyship that it is another quarter hour before we are gone.

  Though it is quite dark when Lady Catherine’s carriage returns us to the parsonage, I look back through the carriage window to see Rosings’s silhouette, even darker than the sky, soaring above us.

  DESPITE MY TIREDNESS, I cannot sleep; my mind will not still, and my body is restless. I try to lie unmoving beneath the blankets, but it is difficult, and at last, fearful of waking William, I leave the bed and wrap myself in my warmest shawl. My feet in their stockings are quiet against the floorboards, and the door, well oiled, does not creak when I open it.

  I find my way downstairs by touch and close myself in my parlor. The moon is nearing its fullest phase, and the room is washed in shades of gray. It is all so familiar: the furniture, with its dark wood and blue upholstery; the fireplace, cold now, the face of its mantel clock gleaming palely in the moonlight; the window looking out on the garden. I have already packed away the few items we will be taking with us: my sewing box, my books, the painted bowl from Elizabeth, and a rather amateurish watercolor rendering of Lucas Lodge, sent to me by Maria soon after my marriage. The rest will remain, and though I chose none of it myself, I am suddenly choked by the dearness of it all, even the carpet, whose pattern, blurred now by the room’s dimness, has never been to my taste.

  I sit in my favorite chair, leg
s drawn up against the cold, and wrap my shawl more securely around me.

  I MUST HAVE slept a little, for when next I look out the window there is the palest light at the horizon, so faint that I know it must be an hour at least until true sunrise. My limbs are cramped and protest when I stretch them. I stare out at the lightening garden, where the plants sleep on through the winter, and wish that I could see it once more in the fullness of summer.

  An old familiar urge takes hold of me, and I rise and leave the parlor.

  Upstairs, I enter our bedchamber as quietly as I can. William rolled in his sleep and now lies sprawled across the entire bed. I remove my nightshift and begin to dress in the gown Mrs. Baxter left out of the trunk for me yesterday; I make it as far as sitting down at my dressing table, my fingers working to free my hair from its plait, before William awakens.

  “What are you doing?” he says. His voice is heavy with sleep.

  My hands still. “I could not sleep. I thought I might take a walk in the garden.”

  “At this hour? It is still nearly dark!”

  “Yes.” I have unbound my hair and now I am gathering sections of it to pin. On impulse, I add, “I might go a little farther, perhaps—I have enjoyed my walks here so, and would like to . . . say good-bye.”

  “We leave this morning!” William sits up a little more in bed. “Charlotte, I hardly think—”

  “Go back to sleep, my dear,” I say, and jab the last pin in place. “I will be back before you awaken, and long before we must leave. The carriage will not arrive until after nine o’clock.”

  He looks as if he might protest again, but I do not give him the chance, rising from my chair, crossing the room quickly, and opening the door. I do not look back as I close it behind me.