by Maria Grace
The morning air had nothing to recommend it—though nothing to really complain about, either. The sun hung where it should, the ground was neither dry and dusty nor wet and muddy, the temperature and the wind were exactly what one might expect at this time of year. It was wholly unremarkable. Exactly what this morning should be: wholly unremarkable.
Except that it was not. She noticed, and resented, every unremarkable thing about it as it mocked the very remarkable way that she felt. If only she could control her feelings as well as she could control her tongue.
Loneliness was no stranger. No, that sensation was more or less a constant companion, so familiar that it was nearly unnoticeable.
Except for today.
Gracious! She had not even realized how she had grown accustomed to his company. She pressed her palms to her cheeks. Mr. Johnstone’s frequent attendance upon Longbourn had been awkward and chafing at first, to be sure, but she had indeed grown accustomed to it.
Was that what Lizzy had meant in her last letter when she had described Mr. Darcy’s presence taking on a happy familiarity like a favorite shawl one wore not because she was cold, but rather because it was comforting? She stopped and blinked several times. That phrase had made no sense when she had first read it, but now it was completely clear.
She swallowed hard. Mr. Johnstone was gone and would not likely return to Meryton anytime soon.
No, that was not the point to dwell upon. She balled her fists and forced her feet into motion. Her boots and skirt swished through the green grass, tugging against them slightly as burrs tried to catch her along the way. The salient point to remember was one might be at ease and comfortable in the company of a man, even one living in the same house. That was an important and significant revelation.
Living at Longbourn one might never have surmised amiability in a couple was possible. And though Jane made that claim for herself and Bingley, one could never be certain how much of Jane’s positivity should be believed. Firsthand experience with the concept, seeing it for herself, and identifying it for what it was—that was a good thing. And something which very well might change her attitude toward the married state.
Of course that could be a double-edged sword—no, that was not a useful place to go now either. She pressed the heels of her hands to her temples and closed her eyes. She really must control her thoughts.
So, what other advantages might be gleaned from recent events? She chewed her lip. It was not always easy to predict Mr. Johnstone’s opinions. Sometimes they differed wildly from what she expected, but in all cases, they were well-thought out and reasoned. Disagreeing with him was not always—not usually to be entirely honest—a bad thing. He welcomed debate, even on weightier matters which he could simply claim proficiency and dismiss anything she might say. That was unusual in a man—at least in her experience.
Certainly Mr. Collins had not been that way. Her stomach tightened into a familiar little knot. He expected to be the expert in all things, unless of course Lady Catherine had an opinion, then her expertise surpassed all others. Otherwise, though, he really brooked no disagreement, often ending discussions with platitudes like: “You cannot expect to understand so weighty a matter, Cousin Mary. Women were not formed for such depth of thought.”
How often she wanted to remind him Lady Catherine was a woman. But at no time did that sound like a good idea. There seemed to be something of a temper in him, behind the well-practiced smiles and nods he offered. No, it would not do to find out more about that.
Perhaps it really had been for the best that Charlotte had married Mr. Collins instead of herself.
She stopped again. Never, absolutely never had she thought that before. But there it was, as plain as day. She really was better off without Mr. Collins. Her disappointment had been too sharp before to allow the idea room. But in truth, perhaps it was Providence working things out for the best.
Something slipped from her shoulders, a heaviness, a sense of being ill-used, perhaps. Whatever it was, it was gone, and she felt easier for it.
That was certainly a worthwhile revelation.
She pressed on, her steps lighter. The library was one street away now. Had a cloud moved past the sun? Was it just a touch brighter than it had been moments ago? Probably not, that was most likely her heart playing tricks on her mind. But perhaps, this once, she would not challenge it. Who could not do with a brighter and cheerier sort of day?
The library bustled with patrons—Saturday mornings were usually one of the busiest times at Clarke’s. Kitty was correct; the loss of the officers there was noticeable. It did take away from some of the novelty of the place and there were certain young ladies, whom she would not mention by name, who did not seem to visit as frequently since their departure.
Papa had occasionally wondered aloud if their departure was any great loss to the library itself. Realistically, though, it had to be. Those young ladies might not rent books, but they did purchase refreshments and trinkets, so they supported the place without even reading.
But Mary was not there for novelty nor the company, nor even refreshments nor trinkets. She would return her book, find another, and be on her way.
She dodged through the crowd to the desk holding the library catalog. What to read now? Charlotte had written to her asking her to hurry and send the notes on The Moral Miscellany and to begin study on another book recommended by Lady Catherine.
Of course, Lady Catherine would have endorsed all the educational materials they were to use. How else would Mr. Collins ever make a decision? And why else would he have chosen to use a text over thirty years old? At least Mr. Johnstone could attribute the choice to something better. A father who promised to send his son to the Hetherington school had specifically requested Mr. Johnstone make some use of it in his teaching. At least that seemed a more solid reason than intimidation by one’s patroness.
After a fortnight of dedicated reading and study of material that did not particularly intrigue her, it was difficult to rouse herself to the idea of doing yet another fortnight of the same. Especially when she could not choose the material for herself.
Oh, how the idea chafed today. It had been annoying before, but today, it was nigh on intolerable.
Charlotte could make do with the notes Mary would take to the post today. If she wanted more, then she could do the work herself. No real friend would really insist that Mary do more than she already had.
At least that was how Mr. Johnstone had made her feel. He had suggested that the work she was doing was a great favor and should be appreciated, not expected and treated as though it were nothing.
She brushed off the notion at first; it was easier that way for the idea bore with it some disturbing implications. But perhaps, as in other ways, Mr. Johnstone was right: she did not need to feel obligated to answer to everyone’s demands simply because she did not—yet—have a home to manage herself.
The thought coursed through her, shaking her hands and nearly melting her knees. She nearly dropped the library catalog as she sucked in a sharp breath to collect herself. What might she select if she chose for herself alone? She opened the catalog again and scanned page after page. There, yes, that would do nicely.
She returned her book and asked for the first novel off the new acquisitions list, clinging to the counter for support. Thankfully, the clerk was quick. She took the novel with trembling hands and all but staggered into the first open chair in the reading room. How fortunate that chair happened to be in a secluded, quiet nook, away from the group of chittering girls and the young men surrounding them.
She opened the novel though she could not focus. Mr. Johnstone had intimated—and he was right—she was more than one to be ordered about, to be expected to do as others insisted. She was not lesser for being unmarried at a time in life when it was perfectly natural to be so. She could choose where she would bestow her efforts; moreover, it was perfectly right and acceptable to do so.
The page in her lap blurred. She dragged
her sleeve across her eyes. Mr. Johnstone would probably enthusiastically entertain her thoughts of the matter if he were here with her. It was easy to imagine his eyes sparkling at the ideas, and his voice encouraging her to consider the matter even more deeply.
If only he were here to do just that.
Chapter 5
A very long fortnight passed—it contained only the requisite fourteen days but somehow felt far longer. On the upside, it gave Mary sufficient time to read and re-read two more novels. How refreshing it was to indulge in something for her pleasure alone and no other reason. Certainly the indulgence could not go on indefinitely. No doubt, soon enough she would crave the stimulation of something more substantive, but for now, the extravagance was not a bad thing. Or so Mr. Johnstone would have said.
She sighed. Mr. Johnstone. That was the downside.
For the most part, she had managed to keep memories of him at bay. Busyness had proved to be her friend. Not only was there much to be done at home, but Mama insisted she accompany her on nearly all her social calls, and Kitty demanded she walk with her to Meryton every other day. It was not difficult to remain active enough to keep her thoughts controlled.
But Saturday mornings, particularly on her journey to and from the library—as she was doing right now—she permitted herself the luxury of thinking on him: his tousled visage, which had the unusual effect of growing more pleasant the more time one spent with him; his deep laugh, which he applied liberally to anything he found amusing; the peculiar sense of humor that went with it—he found the oddest things funny, truth be told. But that was intriguing in and of itself, trying to suss out exactly where and why he found humor where he did. His persistent way of questioning her until she finally spilled her musings to him, not taking the typical evasive answers when she attempted to offer them. Unfortunately, those thoughts only served to remind her of what she most wanted to avoid dwelling on: that she was lonely without him.
She paused at a dusty stile, looking a mite dejected in the morning sun. Surrounded by green fields and a soft breeze, it should have been quite cheerful. But somehow, the stile’s pleasant surroundings could not lift its spirits. A sparse vine tried unsuccessfully to wind itself around the lowest beam. It bore only three scraggly leaves and a shriveled flower bud to show for its efforts. Poor withered thing, so little success for so much work.
Surely the vine could not have worked as hard to climb the stile as she had. Why did it feel like so much effort today?
She jumped down from the stile, neatly avoiding a soup-plate sized patch of mud. She turned toward the north and west, peering into the soft, fluffy clouds in the distance. What a shame that Hetherington should be a full ten miles away.
Ten miles was too far away to keep up a steady acquaintance with a man to whom she could not even write.
That thought was far more common than any other and harder to keep at bay. Resentment teased at the edges of her soul. Somehow Lizzy managed to have her Mr. Darcy, although he was from very far away. It seemed unfair that the smaller separation between her and Mr. Johnstone should prove insurmountable.
But that resentment was ungracious and ungrateful. Perhaps he only crossed her path as a means by which she might learn different ways of looking at the world and perspectives she might never have encountered otherwise. Not every encounter was meant to be a lasting one. Not every person remained in one’s life forever.
Sometimes it seemed too cruel they did not.
Enough! Enough of such thoughts and ramblings. They did nothing to ease her temper or put her in a frame of mind for dealing with Mama and Kitty. Since she could make out Longbourn on the horizon, she needed to find her equanimity quickly. Funny how the house should appear so proper and staid from afar when it proved to be entirely unlike that inside. Perhaps she needed to slow her pace. Given that Mama intended for them to work in the stillroom today, she needed all her faculties focused on tolerating the close quarters and over-management that Mama was apt to provide.
Hill greeted her at the door, her face an utterly neutral mask. That was not a good sign. “Your mother asks that you attend her in the morning room as soon as possible.”
Mary nodded and grit her teeth. There was no telling what that could mean. Well, that was not true. It was sure to be some sort of bother, but of what nature, that was the part that could not be predicted. Best not procrastinate. It would only make things more trying.
The rest of the family was gathered around the large round table in the sunny morning room. Papa, seated opposite the window, seemed engrossed in his newspaper, muttering under his breath at something he read. Kitty hunched in a sunbeam, squinting at a piece of white work she had been struggling with all week. She had plucked it apart, what was it—perhaps three times now?—and was attempting the pattern one more time. Mama appeared to ignore them all, focused on a slice of ham, slicing it into tiny pieces and pushing them around her plate. How strange, even a little suspicious.
The smells of breakfast made her stomach grumble—salty, savory ham, warm fresh toast, hints of sweetness from the jam pots. She had not eaten before she left for the library. It was long past time that she did. She slipped into her typical place between Papa and Kitty. Pray Mama might only acknowledge her and ask no questions, make no remarks.
“It is good of you to finally join us.” Mama barely glanced up from her plate.
“I always go to the library on Saturday morning.” Mary poured herself a cup of coffee, more because it annoyed Mama that she would drink it instead of tea than because she really wanted it at the moment.
“Well, I am sure you will regret having been away so long when you hear the news. Such news that I have for you!” Mama waved a letter.
“Tell us, Mama.” Kitty shivered with excitement.
Mary strained to see the moving paper. Her name was on the direction. “Mama! How could you?”
Papa looked up from his newspaper, eyes narrow and lips tight. “There, there, child, you need not be upset. Your good mother was only trying to save you the effort necessary to open and read your own mail.” He did not approve of Mama’s behavior, but when he did nothing to stop her, his disapproval meant little.
“Pray give it to me, Mama. Do you not think it forward of you to read it even before I have?” Mary reached for her letter, nearly knocking over a jam pot. The answer, of course, was that it was not only forward, but also completely improper and wrong. But Mama would never acknowledge that.
Mama pulled it away from her. “With that attitude, I do not know that I should let you have it at all.”
“Mama! It is addressed to me, not to you. It is mine. Pray give it to me!” She slammed her hands on the table. Dishes rattled.
“Let her have her letter. Is it not enough that you already know what it contains? Do be good enough to share it with the intended recipient before the entire household is upended.” Papa’s voice had the barest edge to it.
But that was usually all the warning one had before Papa truly lost his temper. It did not happen often—it had been a year since his last real outburst—but when it happened, it was very, very memorable. Waiting another full twelvemonth to experience that again would not be too long to wait.
Mama snorted and flung the letter at Mary. “If you must. It would be much faster if I simply told you what was in it.”
“I much prefer to read it myself.” Mary sat down and held the letter below the tabletop, away from Kitty’s prying eyes. She would have that much privacy at least.
“Do not sit there in silence, girl. You may as well read it to us.” Mama patted the table beside her plate like an anxious woodpecker.
“I will read the relevant points to you once I have finished reading it.” Mary did not look up from her letter, but it was easy to imagine Mama’s face.
Papa smirked. Kitty giggled under her breath.
Mary focused on the handwriting: thin and spidery, sharp and pointy. From Mrs. Johnstone? Why on earth would she be writing to Mary? It
was not as though the matron even liked her, much less wanted her as a correspondent.
Miss Bennet,
I hope this missive finds you in good health. Since our return to Hetherington, my son has begun the undertaking he discussed with you. We have taken six young scholars into our home to be taught by him. (And cared for by me although I do not think he sees it that way.)
I do not know how to put this in a politic fashion, so I will be plain. The children are simply wild and unruly, nothing to what my sons were like as boys. I find I am at my wits end from the moment I rise until I see them to bed each night and hours beyond that. I am quite certain I cannot do this much longer.
I have written to my daughter to come assist me in this endeavor. But she will not be able to come before the end of the month. Thus, I petition you for your most gracious assistance.
Pray, can you come and help me manage these youngsters until my daughter is available to assist? I am truly at the end of myself and do not know where else to turn. Come whenever you can. Even today would not be too soon.
In desperation,
AJ
“Are you not excited? Is this not wonderful news?” Mama bounced on her chair and clapped much as Kitty might.
“I am not sure how I feel about it.” Mary chewed her lip.
It was all so strange. Was Mrs. Johnstone really so desperate that she would invite a woman who she disliked to come help? Had she so few connections to call upon in her moment of need? What kind of children were these? The youngest should not be less than seven years old, old enough not to require much in the way of supervision. The situation simply did not make sense.
“I think—” Kitty leaned forward, struggling to get her share of the conversation. “If it were me, I should very much like to go.”
“You have been invited to stay with the Johnstones! By Mrs. Johnstone herself. What could be more acceptable and proper than that?” Mama waved her hands instead of shouting.