A Most Affectionate Mother

by Maria Grace

  “No, sir. I would not trouble you for such a thing—” She slipped back a step.

  “Pray forgive me, sir. I am the one in want of an introduction.” The young man bowed slightly. “It is my understanding that this young lady is in your circle of acquaintance.”

  “Indeed, she and her family are. We consider them great friends.” Sir William gestured broadly as though proving his point. His round, red cheeks seemed to punctuate his too-loud smile.

  Mary held her breath to avoid a sigh. He might consider them great friends, but she was not so generous. It was still something of a sore point that Mr. Collins had chosen Charlotte over her.

  All the more reason why she needed to do this favor for Charlotte. It would prove, at least to herself, that she was past her resentments and ill-feelings.

  “Miss Bennet, may I introduce Mr. Percy Johnstone, Vicar of Hetherington Parish.” Sir William thumbed his lapels and rocked forward on his toes. Was there any other man who could be so pleased in offering so simple a service?

  Mr. Johnstone bowed.

  She curtsied because it was appropriate. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” It was difficult to lie without letting her expression betray her.

  What matter, it probably made no difference. Not that Sir William would notice, and if this Mr. Johnstone did, it was good for him to understand how welcome this acquaintance was.

  “As am I, madam.” He bowed from his shoulders. His pleasant tone seemed as forced as hers.

  If he did not want to know her, then why was he so determined to obtain an introduction? How maddening could he contrive to be?

  “Very good, very good. I see my task here is done.” Sir William patted his belly and lumbered off, no doubt to find another good deed to do for some unsuspecting innocent.

  “Er, ah, Miss Bennet, now that we have been properly acquainted … about my book.” He glanced about furtively and pointed to the ill-gotten treasure she clutched to her chest.

  “Your book, sir?” She clasped it a little tighter and slipped back another step. “You are quite presumptuous. By all rights, this volume belongs to Clarke’s, not to you. And I have rightfully checked it out. There is no means by which you can argue that this item is yours.”

  “What need have you for such a title? It is hardly a woman’s kind of reading.” His nose wrinkled into a sort of a sneer.

  If she had any inkling to be sympathetic to him, he had now lost it. “That is not for you to judge. Why else would a woman come to a library but to read what books she pleases? I would thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. I have never asked for them, and I can tell you, without reservation, that I do not welcome them.”

  His eyes bulged, an expression that in other circumstances might have been funny. The furrowed creases on his forehead deepened, a bit like one of Gillray’s caricatures. “I need that book.”

  “And I do not? Why else would I have taken it out?” Bother! She was nearly shouting now.

  “What do you need it for?”

  “That is a personal question and hardly any of your business.”

  “My requirement is greater.” He took a long stride toward her.

  She backpedaled to match. “I am sure that in your eyes, your needs are always greater than anyone else’s.”

  He cocked his head and blinked. Could he really be surprised? “That is a harsh judgement.”

  “Have you given me any reason to think otherwise of you?”

  He clutched his forehead, rolling his eyes. He was as dramatic as Lydia when she did not get her way. “Pray return the book, and let me have it.”

  “You may have it when I have finished with it. Besides, since I have already checked it out, I have used all my subscription for the month, and I will have to wait a full fortnight before I might take out another.”

  “That is easily remedied. I will pay for you to extend your subscription this month.” He patted a coat pocket that must contain his purse.

  “That is a grand gesture, I am sure, but I do not know you at all. I cannot possibly accept a gift even under these circumstances. I will assume that it was well-meant, but I will not endanger my reputation for your convenience. Good day.” She turned sharply on her heel and marched out of the library.

  Two young women dodged out of her way. She threw the door open and charged into the sunshine.

  The audacity of the man! The gall! Pompous, arrogant creature, demanding she give up her rightfully-obtained tome to him simply because he declared that he needed it more than she. Who was he to make that judgement? Worse still, who was he to make a public offer to pay for her subscription?

  She pressed a hand to her belly to subdue the sick feeling. What might people think after hearing that? Her cheeks burned. At least Sir William would vouch for her decency.

  What an audacious, ill-mannered sort of man was this vicar from Hetherington.

  More offensive, he had cheated her out of her time in the reading room, time she had desperately needed. How could she possibly return home now with all her sensibilities whipped into frenzy? Oh, the things that would slip from her lips! Mama and Kitty might never recover from the shock. No, she needed someplace to collect herself before facing Longbourn again.

  She turned away from the library toward the baker’s. She had nothing to do there, but the smell of baking breads was always calming, exactly what she required. She paused near the doorway, soaking in the perfume of hot, yeasty pastries, and licked her lips. Perhaps a Chelsea bun….

  “Pray, Miss Bennet, please wait.” No! He was like a dog begging for scraps.

  She whirled toward him. “Pray, importune me no further, sir. I regret Sir William introduced us at all. Pray do not make me resort to cutting you in public.”

  “I regret that those are your feelings on the matter. But, I beseech you, hear me out. I am in desperate need of that book. I am about to start a school, and one of my patrons … ah … requested … that I use that exact title in my teaching. I have little choice but to make some use of it in planning my students’ lessons.”

  “I am on a similar mission for the wife of Hunsford’s vicar. They have the same need.”

  “Oh.” His jaw dropped, his mouth forming a round “o.” He looked at his feet.

  Perhaps now he was convinced that she truly needed the text. Not that she should have had to defend her choice of reading material to a complete stranger. “You will excuse me now.” She bent her knees in a tiny curtsey and tried to edge past him.

  “That changes nothing for me. How long will you have it?” At least his voice had lost its commanding-demanding edge.

  “As long as I need. I think that is longer now than when you first began to harass me over it.” The latter bit probably was unnecessary and even unkind, but had she not been driven to it?

  “Please, madam …”

  “I will not give up my book.”

  His shoulders slumped. Why did he have to look like a kicked puppy?

  She huffed. “But if you are so desperate to use it, you may speak to my father. Perhaps he will consent to you using it in his library when I am not reading it myself. Now, good day.”

  His lifted his head and stared at her, slack-jawed, as though trying to find words.

  She nodded as she strode away, listening for footsteps. Good, there were none.

  Hopefully that would keep the blackguard away from her and her book.

  Chapter 2

  Three days later, Mary sat in the parlor, The Moral Miscellany open in a morning sunbeam on the writing desk. Empty as it was now, the parlor felt spacious with seating that would easily accommodate at least eight, not including the writing desk by the window. Pale yellow walls magnified the sunlight while soft breezes floated in, teasing the light curtains into an elegant dance. It really was a pleasant room.

  She looked down at the cross-written sheet of paper before her. Her handwriting was not nearly as pretty as Jane’s or as legible as Lizzy’s, but given the magnitude of t
he favor Charlotte asked, reading her hand was little to ask. No doubt that was all she would receive in return for her time spent with Mr. T. Cadell and his Moral Miscellany.

  What an unkind, disagreeable, inappropriate thought. It was an honor to do such a favor for her friend. No reward was needed or even appropriate—even when a very great deal was being asked of her.

  She sanded the page and stood. Gracious heavens, it took far longer to cover those first several essays than she had expected. Certainly this was much more serious reading than the nursery stories about cats and dogs and birds that she remembered. How this work might be used to instruct children still eluded her. On the Omniscience and Omnipresence of the Deity, together with the Immensity of his Works did not seem to be the sort of thing her Gardiner nephews would be able to attend to, much less understand. But, she had not been asked to evaluate the text, only to summarize it for use.

  She stretched her shoulders and her neck. How long had she been at this? Several hours now. It was definitely time for a break. Charlotte would not be expecting her response to be posted for at least a week, so she had the luxury of a little time. Especially considering that the book was not due back to the library until after that.

  Was it so wrong to plan on keeping it for the full duration of her rental? Probably. If nothing else, it was a little petty. Not a pretty trait in a woman. She really did need to put more effort into adjusting her attitudes.

  A flash of movement at the window caught her eye. She pulled the curtain aside, pressing the side of her face to the windowpane. What was that? Was there a caller expected today? Surely that was a man’s coat coming up the front walk. But Papa received few callers.

  A loud knock summoned Mrs. Hill to the front door. Low voices murmured just beyond the parlor door. Mrs. Hill’s she could identify, but the other, a man’s voice, she could not. Mrs. Hill’s footsteps trailed off toward Papa’s study and, a moment later, back again.

  “He will see you,” Hill traipsed back toward Papa’s bookroom.

  How decidedly odd. Who would be visiting—

  Kitty scurried into the parlor and pressed the door shut behind her. “Mary! Mary! You will never guess!” She clutched her hand to her chest, breathing hard, every inch a novel’s romantic heroine.

  Mary looked at the ceiling where the plaster was cracked and looked as though it was held together by cobwebs. “Then why do you not tell me?”

  “Why must you be that way? You are always such a killjoy.” Kitty rolled her eyes and flounced to the settee near the fireplace. “I have seen the oddest thing. A strange man has come to call on Papa!”

  “I gathered that much, sitting here and hearing the door open.”

  “But I am sure you did not see him,” Kitty taunted in her best singsong.

  “Is there a reason I might want to?”

  Kitty rose and sashayed to Mary. “I think he was rather handsome, in a tousled, windblown sort of way.”

  “Since the day is quite calm, that hardly sounds like a compliment.” Mary turned her back on Kitty, not that it would do much good.

  “Why are you determined to dislike everything?” Kitty stomped.

  “Why are you so determined to find everything agreeable even before you know its nature?” And why could she not mind her own business?

  “His nature, you mean.”

  “You sound like Lydia.”

  “What is so bad about that? She was the first among us to get herself a husband.” The edge of Kitty’s lips curled up in a little sneer.

  “And such a husband she got. I would enjoin you not to follow her example.” Mary dragged her hand down her face. Kitty’s hero-worship of Lydia was worse than she had realized.

  “Mama is right! You are jealous. Spiteful and jealous that you will end up an old maid, and she, the youngest of us all—”

  Mary clapped her hand over her eyes. So that is what Mama thought of her. “You do realize she is constantly begging Jane and Elizabeth for pennies because her husband drinks away all their money.”

  “That is a lie! Did you not see her last letter?” Kitty sounded like Mama when she shrieked.

  “Perhaps I should let you read her letters to me. Only last month she asked if I had any pocket money—”

  Kitty leaned into Mary’s face. “I do not believe you. I will not hear this. In fact, I will tell Mama the lies you are spreading about Lydia!”

  “Pray do not tell her!”

  “See there, that is proof you are lying.”

  “No, I am trying to protect Mama. It would devastate her to know Lydia is not enjoying the kind of life to which she had grown accustomed.”

  “Liar!”

  Mary pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. There was no reasoning with Kitty in this state. Mary shook her head and quietly removed herself from the parlor.

  The closed door muffled Kitty’s protests but did not silence them. For that, one would probably need to leave the house.

  A walk in the rose garden would not be a bad thing, and if she took a large basket and shears, she could make an excuse to Mama that she intended to cut flowers for the vases while she was out. Granted, that might not be her first purpose, but it would be worth doing for the relief of getting out. Yes, that was a very good idea.

  Papa intercepted her near the kitchen on the way to the still room. “Ah, excellent, I was looking for you. Pray join me in the study.” He nodded and turned back toward his bookroom.

  It would have been pleasing for him to deign to wait for her response, but few were offered that sort of privilege. Swallowing back another sigh, she followed him through the dimly-lit corridor to his crowded study.

  “Mary, this is Mr. Percy Johnstone, Vicar of Hetherington Parish.” Papa gestured toward his guest, sitting in one of the two large leather wingchairs near the fireplace.

  He looked as he had at the library: slightly more than windblown but slightly less than untidy, just on the edge of unkempt. The effect was no more attractive here than when they had first met.

  “I have made his acquaintance.” She crossed her arms over her chest and planted her feet firmly.

  “Yes, I understand, Sir William introduced you at Clarke’s.” Why was Papa smiling so wryly?

  “Good morning, Miss Bennet.” Mr. Johnstone stood and bowed from his shoulders. At least his manners were improving.

  “Good day, sir.” No matter how she felt, it would not do to be rude. “What brings you to see my father today?”

  “Well, now, after a fashion, you did offer an invitation.” Mr. Johnstone’s left eye twitched, and the corner of his lips lifted to match.

  Impertinent! She stomped toward him. “Excuse me, but I did not. I have only met you once. I would not offer so bold an invitation.”

  Papa cleared his throat, but it sounded alarmingly like there was a laugh underneath it. “Forgive me, Mary, but I must argue. I believe you did just that.”

  Mary gasped. “What do you mean?”

  “Unless Mr. Johnstone is quite a fanciful liar which I will admit is still a real possibility—” Papa’s eyebrow flashed up a mite.

  Mr. Johnstone snickered.

  “I am under the impression you said something to the effect of, ‘If you are so desperate for the use of the book I have checked out, speak to my father. Perhaps he will consent to you using it in his library when I am not reading it myself.’ That sounds very much like an invitation to me.” Papa glanced at Mr. Johnstone in a way that might be regarded conspiratorial.

  Mary’s face flushed all the way down to her shoulders. Horrible man, taking her literally in a moment of unchecked frustration. Any reasonable person would not have taken that as an invite—would they?

  “And he has done so.” Now Papa smiled openly.

  She looked away. “Apparently.”

  “I would not have had the audacity to make such a petition had you not suggested it yourself.” The way Mr. Johnstone’s eyes twinkled—he was laughing at her!

  “I am sur
e you would not have.” No, he would probably rather have ripped the book from her hands and run off with it.

  “I have heard his application for access to the volume in question. His reasons are quite as sound as yours. Moreover, he must return to his own parish soon and does not have the luxury of waiting for you to be finished.” The sharp edge to Papa’s voice implied disapproval. “So I have agreed to your proposal.”

  Her heart thudded in her throat so hard she could barely speak.

  “He may use the book here in my study when you are not engaged with it. I believe the concept is called ‘sharing.’”

  “But, how can you—”

  “I doubt you will feel any inconvenience at all. I have noted that you are apt to read early in the day before you mother pays her morning calls. Then you either go with her, or you go off to pay your own or venture to town or take advantage of the afternoon sun to work on your sewing. You are a creature of habit, you know.”

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks. How could he know her schedule so well? When had he ever paid so much attention to what she did?

  “If he comes at a time similar to today, I expect you will have finished your daily reading and will hardly be inconvenienced by sharing the book with Mr. Johnstone.”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. “It appears that what I think hardly matters.”

  Papa cleared his throat again, but this time there was no laugh underlying it.

  He was right. She was bordering on rude, but he—both of them—were little better.

  “The book is in the parlor if you want it. I am going out to cut flowers for Mama.” She tossed her head and stormed out of the study.

  For the next four days, Mr. Johnstone appeared like clockwork at half past eleven every morning, exactly the time she was most likely to quit her studies and turn to other pursuits. Some days, just to be contrary, she lingered another quarter of an hour, but it never proved profitable. She stared at words and scratched her pen along the paper, but no real insights were gained through the effort.