The Pursuit of Mary Bennet: A Pride and Prejudice Novel

by Mingle, Pamela

  I walked alone much of the time, although occasionally Jane accompanied me. On one of my solitary rambles, as I passed near the riverbank, I heard a fine male voice singing “Annie Laurie.” I knew it was not Charles, who couldn’t sing at all, so that left one of the other two gentlemen. I sneaked toward the sound, hoping my half boots wouldn’t land on a twig and give me away.

  The singing ceased. “I hear you, so you’d best make yourself known.” It was Mr. Walsh.

  He must have uncannily good hearing, I thought, my cheeks already flushing. “It’s Mary Bennet,” I said, walking toward him.

  “Miss Bennet, you shock me. Sneaking up on a gentleman is a very risky business. What if I’d had my gun?” He set his rod and reel down and leaped to his feet. He’d shed his coat, and now looked around for it.

  “I hardly believe you would have shot me,” I said, chuckling.

  He smiled. “Indeed. Your footstep is much lighter than a wild boar’s.” Having found his coat, he slipped it on. He wore no waistcoat or cravat.

  “Do forgive me for the intrusion, but when I heard you singing, I had to see who it was. You have an impressive voice, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He gave me a wry smile. “I don’t usually sing with others about.”

  “Then we will not have the pleasure of hearing you after dinner one evening? I could accompany you, if you’d like.”

  “I would never live it down. Bingley and Ashton would make dreadful sport of me.”

  All I could do was smile at this. He was no doubt right.

  “Perhaps if I could persuade you to sing a duet with me?” he said.

  I flushed at the thought. “Oh, never. I have the worst voice imaginable. I have vowed never to sing in company again.”

  He laughed. “No! I cannot believe it.” He took my elbow and began to steer me back toward the lane. “You walk every day, I think.”

  “When the weather allows, yes.”

  “May I join you?”

  “Now?”

  When he nodded, I said, “But your fishing gear—you don’t want to leave it, do you?”

  “I shall walk as far as the avenue, and then I’ll return to my angling.”

  We talked only of mundane things How long the excellent weather would last, the number of fish he’d caught that morning, and the length of his stay at High Tor. Probably a few more weeks, he said. Nothing noteworthy, like our conversation about Lord Nelson had been. When we reached the avenue, he bowed. “Enjoy the rest of your walk, Miss Bennet.”

  “I hope the fish continue to bite, and do please forgive me for sneaking up on you.”

  “Not at all. I’m glad you did.”

  His voice rang in my head during the rest of the way.

  Her brow is like the snowdrift

  Her throat is like the swan

  Her face it is the fairest

  That e’er the sun shone on.

  I imagined he was singing about me. But Annie Laurie had blue eyes, not brown, like mine.

  It was Kitty who had blue eyes.

  Late one morning, Jane asked me to cut fresh flowers for the salon because the vicar was coming to dinner. I donned an apron and, knife in hand, carried my basket toward an area skirting the lane where daffodils grew in profusion. Cutting stems and humming a few bars from a Haydn piece I’d just been practicing, I started when Amanda Ashton came into view. I didn’t bother looking up again until she spoke. “ ‘I saw some golden daffodils; / Beside the lake, beneath the trees, / Waving and dancing in the breeze.’ ”

  I smiled, while inwardly cringing at her misquoting of Wordsworth.

  “Mary, you look the very picture of the country wife,” she said. Amanda looked the very picture of the kind of woman who never dirtied her hands with gardening. “Do you need any assistance?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve only one knife. I’m nearly done, anyway.”

  “I do so love daffodils. They make one feel happy, with their bright color and merry aspect. How I would love to grow them! So charming.”

  “Why can you not grow them?”

  She looked slightly perplexed, as if this were a weighty subject needing hours of thought. Ignoring my question, she asked one of her own. “Have you had any news from your dear family at Longbourn?”

  Oh, not this again. I should have guessed she hadn’t walked out here to tell me about her love of daffodils.

  “No, we’ve heard nothing of any consequence.” Papa had penned a few lines, informing us of matters we already knew or could have guessed at, such as: Mama had resumed visits to her sister but otherwise kept to her room; Lydia lay on the chaise most of the time complaining of boredom; he himself remained in his library as much as possible.

  The only item of any interest was that they’d engaged a midwife for the birth of Lydia’s child, which had given them, and us too, peace of mind regarding the upcoming event. And one final thing: Lydia had heard nothing from her husband. However, I was not inclined to share any of this with Amanda Ashton.

  “Tell me, Miss Bennet, is George Wickham a relation of Mr. Darcy?”

  The question was so unexpected, I swiveled to look at her, lost my balance, and fell backward, just managing to catch myself before tumbling completely over. I heard a snicker from Mrs. Ashton as I righted myself.

  “A relation? Do you mean a blood relation?”

  “I’ve been told they are half brothers.”

  “No, indeed, they are not. Mr. Wickham’s father was the steward at Pemberley until his death. That’s the only connection between them.”

  “I see.”

  If she could pry, I could do so in return. Keeping my voice even, I said, “Why do you ask? And who told you such a falsehood?”

  Her mouth stretched into that odd representation of a smile. “I do not recall who told me; one of my acquaintances in Bath, I think. Although I didn’t credit it, I wished to discover whether it was true or not. And I thought you and your family might want to know what was being said.”

  “If you didn’t credit it, I rather wonder you took the trouble to ask me about it.”

  “I’ve offended you, Mary. I do beg your pardon.”

  “You have a remarkable curiosity regarding my sister and Mr. Wickham, and I cannot help wondering why.”

  “With no children of my own, and a husband who pays me scant attention—don’t fret; I’m sure you’ve noticed—I have little else with which to entertain myself. Other people’s predicaments are, therefore, of great interest to me.”

  What an extraordinary admission. I wasn’t convinced she was telling the truth, however. For a moment, I challenged her with a skeptical look, but she said nothing further of any note. “I shall continue my walk, then, Mary, and hope you will forgive my impertinence.”

  To this I made no answer. I finished my flower gathering and rose, noticing as I did so that Mrs. Ashton was scurrying directly toward the house, seemingly with no intention of walking out any farther. A short while later, as I carried the daffodils to the house, I observed her and Mr. Ashton driving toward the village in his curricle.

  It occurred to me then to wonder why she thought of Lydia’s situation as a “predicament.” An uneasy feeling settled at the back of my mind. Did she know something?

  That evening, I met the vicar, Rev. Carstairs, for the first time. A cousin of Mr. Walsh, he was quite young, surely no more than two-and-twenty, with a head of dark, unruly hair and a congenial manner. Kitty was seated between him and Mr. Ashton, while I was placed between Mr. Walsh and Mrs. Ashton. To my relief, Charles bore the burden of conversing with Amanda, leaving me free to talk to the other two gentlemen.

  “When did you take orders, sir?” I asked between morsels of beef.

  “Only last year. Henry was kind enough to offer me the living at Steadly.”

  “Andrew is the son of an earl�
�s daughter,” Mr. Walsh said. “He was in need of gainful employment.”

  Both men chuckled, and I saw that they had an easy camaraderie.

  “So your father married the earl’s daughter?” Kitty asked Andrew.

  He nodded. “I’m sure the earl has long regretted it.” This time the two men laughed out loud.

  I found I liked Mr. Carstairs’s sense of humor, but I wasn’t sure if Kitty appreciated it. She smiled hesitantly and looked uncomfortable. Servants removed the platters of beef, replacing them with trays of raspberry and almond tarts, cakes, and custards in small cups. While everybody helped themselves to a sweet, I wondered why Mr. Walsh had never mentioned his own father. His mother was widowed, I knew. Would it be rude to ask?

  I should have considered the matter more carefully before speaking. I turned to him and said, “What about your father, Mr. Walsh? Was it a recent loss?”

  He studied me for a moment, his eyes darkening. “No. It’s been five years since his death,” he said coldly.

  He added nothing further, and I wished I’d never asked. From his curt response, I could see this was not a subject he wished to converse about. He’d never spoken to me in that tone before, and I felt hurt burn in my chest. Was my question really so offensive?

  After dinner, I played the pianoforte while Kitty seated herself next to Mr. Walsh, giggling and whispering. He seemed distracted. I noticed his eyes roving about the room, although his head was tilted toward her. Mr. Carstairs turned the pages for me, though it wasn’t really necessary. I played poorly, making a hash of some difficult passages because my attention was not fully engaged. As soon as the piece was finished, I nearly leaped off the bench. Stealing from the room, I sought the privacy of my own chamber. It wasn’t so difficult to escape from Henry Walsh if I applied myself to the task.

  We had many such evenings. Mr. Carstairs was a frequent visitor and often made the fourth at the whist table. On a few occasions, Jane invited other guests, and I played so everybody else could dance. I grew irritated with seeing all the ladies save myself dancing with Mr. Walsh. My resentment was magnified because I did not feel we were on good terms. Although I’d felt his watchful eyes on more than one occasion, we had exchanged only a few perfunctory words ever since I had asked about his father. Perhaps the question had been impertinent, but it seemed a small thing to forgive.

  If this was the way things were to be, I thought I may as well return to Longbourn. My feelings were in a tangle; I desperately wanted his attention but was afraid I wouldn’t know how to behave if he bestowed it on me. For the present, his affection seemed directed at Kitty. He was solicitous of her comfort. He brought her tea, and once fetched her shawl when she said she was chilly. Frequently he was her dance partner, and he always played cards when she requested.

  No. Allowing myself to feel anything for him would leave me far too vulnerable.

  One evening while I was straightening the sheet music, he approached me.

  “Miss Bennet, are we never to stand up together? Are you the only lady who plays?”

  I felt warmth rising up from my neck. “I’m afraid I can’t speak for Jane’s acquaintances, but among my sisters, Elizabeth is the only other who plays.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Bingley could extend her an invitation? She lives in Derbyshire, does she not?”

  I laughed. “Some ten miles from here. She has twin daughters who keep her very busy, so I doubt she will visit for the sole purpose of our entertainment.”

  “A pity. Are you still set against attending the upcoming ball?”

  Oh, why had I ever made that silly statement? Although I felt as if the words were stuck in my throat, I finally choked out an answer. “I-I’ve decided to go. To the ball.”

  If I were he, I would have laughed. But he was absolutely serious when said, “Will you promise, then, to stand up with me? The first set? And one other?”

  “I will.”

  “I’m honored.”

  A smile—probably a very silly-looking one—burst out. The world seemed not such a bad place after all.

  Chapter 8

  The day at last arrived for our visit to Linden Hall, Mr. Walsh’s estate, and by now, I had developed a great curiosity about it. Jane, Mrs. Ashton, and I traveled in the chaise. The men rode, except for John Ashton, who insisted on driving Kitty in his curricle. His wife smiled tightly when he suggested it, and Jane made disapproving faces at Kitty, but to no avail. She didn’t see, or pretended not to.

  We turned off the road onto a lane, which soon broadened into an avenue lined with sycamores. The house came into view, set atop a gently rising slope, with a broad expanse of verdant lawn reaching toward a small lake. On one side of the house lay gardens crisscrossed with gravel paths, and on the other, a wood. The look of it surprised me. I had expected a more rustic setting.

  The house itself featured evenly spaced, linteled windows. A lady stood at the top of the stone steps, Henry’s mother, no doubt. Flanked by a smiling Mr. Walsh and Charles, who had already arrived, she waited to greet us. John Ashton and Kitty had pulled up just ahead of the chaise, and we all ascended the steps together.

  “Mama, allow me to present Mrs. Bingley,” Mr. Walsh said.

  “Welcome,” she said warmly to Jane. “I’m glad to have the privilege of meeting you at last, since I have known your husband for quite some time now.”

  “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Jane said.

  “And this is Mr. and Mrs. Ashton.” Mrs. Ashton curtseyed prettily, while her husband gave a small bow. “And last, may I present Miss Mary Bennet and Miss Kitty Bennet?”

  Edging closer to me while I acknowledged the introduction first, Kitty clamped her foot on the hem of my dress as I curtseyed, applying a firm pressure and making it impossible for me to rise fully. Not wishing to embarrass her, I spoke softly. “You’re standing on my dress.”

  “How ridiculous, Mary. Of course I’m not standing on your dress.” She moved her foot aside and I sprang upright. Jane’s face wore an uneasy expression, and I exerted myself to make up for the lapse in manners.

  “How nice to meet you, ma’am,” I said. “Your home is lovely.”

  Not content with stepping on my hem, now Kitty shouldered me aside to greet our hostess. “I’ve told Mr. Walsh over and over again how keen I was to meet you, ma’am,” she said. “I declare, I thought I would never get the chance.”

  A warm smile lit Mrs. Walsh’s eyes. She was a handsome woman, probably somewhere in her forties. “Shall we go in and have refreshments?” Her son offered her his arm, and they led the way.

  The front door opened into a small rotunda. We passed through it into a sitting room warmed by an inviting fire. “What a delightful prospect you have from here!” said Amanda Ashton. “I never saw anything quite so charming. What do you say, John? Do you not agree?” With a bored look, her husband nodded.

  When we had all arranged ourselves around a low table spread with platters of fruit, cheese, meats, and bread, Mrs. Walsh poured tea. Tall, arched windows lined one side of the room. “How nice to look out upon the woods from here,” Jane said.

  “We are very fond of walking there,” said the older lady. “Henry has had paths constructed, winding all through the grove. It’s quite enchanting.” She looked at her son with motherly pride.

  “I’ll take you on a tour later,” he said, “and most likely bore you senseless.”

  “Oh, no, never,” Jane said, laughing. “Only think of all the tours of High Tor you have been forced to endure.”

  “Absolutely right, Walsh,” Charles put in. “I for one am eager to see all the latest improvements.”

  “What a fine-looking instrument,” I said, having spotted the pianoforte upon entering the room. “Do you play, ma’am?”

  “Only tolerably,” she said. “Henry has told me you are quite accomplished, however, M
iss Bennet. I hope you may be persuaded to play for us later.”

  I was astonished to hear he had spoken to his mother about me but managed to stammer out my willingness to play. I looked up and caught Mr. Walsh’s glance.

  “Anyone for fishing?” he asked, turning to the men. “I know all the best spots, of course, and I do believe the trout are rising.” This excited much interest, and finally it was arranged that they would spend the morning in that activity, leaving us ladies to talk, do needlework, or read.

  The gentlemen went off to gather their fishing rods and reels. After they left, I rose and walked to the windows, where I might look out on the imposing trees and ponder in private.

  He has spoken of me to his mother; therefore he must, at times, think of me when we’re apart. It means nothing, Mary, I scolded myself. Only imagine what he has likely said of Kitty. It is she with whom he spends most of his time. Not you.

  By the time the men returned, I’d worn myself out with the flutters and began to count myself a simpleton. Kitty had been sending me evil looks all morning. When Mrs. Walsh asked me to play, I quickly agreed. Anything to take my mind off a certain gentleman. I chose Moonlight Sonata, then the adagio from a favorite Mozart piece. I should have chosen something bright and ebullient; instead, I chose lyrical.

  “Who had the most fish in his creel?” Jane asked. The three men had washed and changed back into more formal attire.

  “Much as it pains me to say it, your husband lays claim to that honor,” Mr. Walsh said. “But I was a close second.” We all waited expectantly for Mr. Ashton to chime in, but after a soft belch, he sprawled out on one of the chairs.

  After the men had refreshed themselves, our host suggested a tour of the grounds. Thank God. I needed an activity besides playing the pianoforte and taking turns about the room. Mr. Ashton begged off, as did Mrs. Walsh, who she said must confer with the cook about dinner. As we exited through the front doors, Kitty pushed ahead and took Mr. Walsh’s arm before he had the opportunity to offer it. Charles escorted Mrs. Ashton, and Jane and I walked arm in arm, trailing behind the others along the avenue toward the far end of the lake.