Chapter 16
For a long while, I did everything in my power to encourage Lydia to form an attachment to Felicity. Every few days, I either pleaded a headache, lied about Mama needing my help, or sneaked out of the house for a walk, forcing her to tend the baby by herself. Each time I returned, the poor thing would be lying in the middle of Lydia’s bed sleeping, but more often, wailing pitifully, while her mother leafed through old issues of The Lady’s Magazine or arranged her hair in a new style. When I entered the room, Lydia would glower at me and say, “Where were you, Mary? She’s been crying for hours.” I knew she wouldn’t tolerate my lecturing her about her treatment of Felicity; she had already made that clear.
Even Mama noticed not all was well. One evening after her last feeding, I brought Felicity downstairs to the drawing room after I’d readied her for bed. Papa had retreated to his library by then, so it was only Mama, Lydia, and me in attendance. “Oh, let me see my darling granddaughter!” my mother exclaimed, and so I placed the babe in her arms.
My mother did seem genuinely to enjoy her granddaughter—when she was not crying or fussing, of course. Now she held the child out in front of her, raising her brows, puffing out her cheeks, and making all manner of funny faces, which delighted Felicity. “Oh, will you look at that smile? She looks like you when you were a baby, Lydia.”
For the first time ever, at least in my presence, Lydia took notice of her daughter, smiling and asking, “Did I really look like that?” For the briefest moment, I saw a spark of curiosity flash in her eyes. Mama, to my surprise, set the baby into Lydia’s accepting arms. “There’s a pretty girl,” Lydia said. “There’s my sweet girl.”
A sharp jolt of jealousy nearly overwhelmed me. It caught me by surprise, and I had to make an effort to keep command of my expression. Wasn’t this what I wanted? For Lydia to love Felicity? Yes. Decidedly. Then what was wrong with me?
“I declare, she is a cute little thing, is she not?” After a moment or two, Felicity began fussing, and Lydia said, “Take her, Mary. She’s sleepy.”
“You put her to bed, Lydia,” I said irritably. “You’re her mother, and you must accustom yourself to doing more for her,” I added.
“Don’t you take that tone with me, Mary! It is your responsibility to take her upstairs.”
“Oh? I beg your pardon. You are Felicity’s mother; therefore, you are responsible for her care. I thought I was merely helping you through a difficult time.”
“Mary is right, Lydia. You have been very lax in your attentions to Felicity. She will soon think Mary, not you, is her mama.”
My sister leaped up, jostling the baby. I reacted without thinking, reaching out to steady Lydia. She recoiled from me, turned, and made it as far as the door before she said, “What should I do if she cries?”
“Rock her for a while. That usually soothes her.”
When enough time had elapsed for Lydia to be out of earshot, Mama said, “I have been very much worried about Lydia and her child. She does not seem to have the natural feelings of a mother.”
Still trying to gain the upper hand over my confused emotions, I didn’t answer for a time. I leaned against the back of the chair, forcing a calm I did not feel. “Jane told me this happens sometimes. That some mothers take longer than others to form an attachment with their child, and there’s nothing to be done but wait.”
“I think you should insist, Mary, that Lydia take more responsibility for Felicity. Someday, when she and Wickham get their marital problems sorted out, and she returns to Newcastle, caring for her baby will be on her shoulders. Then what will she do?”
My mother had the fantastic notion that any day now, Wickham would arrive and carry his wife and child off with him and all would be well. Even though we had explained the situation to her on more than one occasion, she simply couldn’t take it in. But this was not the time to attempt to set her straight. “I’ve tried everything, but so far, nothing has worked. Just now, when she held Felicity and smiled at her . . . it was the first time she’s ever done so.”
“She’s an indolent girl, I know, and even if she someday loves Felicity, she’ll still not want to be bothered with her. From now on, I shall try to encourage her, Mary.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
“Whom are you encouraging?” Papa had emerged from his cocoon in the library into the middle of our discussion.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Mr. Bennet,” Mama said, winking at me. Both of us knew too well, even though he asked, his interest would wane as soon as we tried to explain.
“I have some news,” he said, surprising us both.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense! What is it?”
“We are to have guests.”
“Guests? Who?” Mama asked. “Why did you not tell me sooner?”
“Because I just learned of it myself, in today’s post.”
“But that was hours ago!” Mama said.
My father’s face folded into his characteristic look of impatience. “Mary, I took your advice and wrote to Charles about the drainage problems some of the tenants are having. Mr. Calvert’s barley crop will be ruined if something is not done soon, you see.”
“Charles is coming, then? And Jane and the baby?” Mama asked.
“No, no. Charles and two friends are coming, men who know of these things and can advise the farmers on how to drain their fields.”
I felt the blood seep from my face. “Which friends?”
“Henry Walsh for one, and the other is a Mr. Carstairs, whom I’ve not met. You must be acquainted with him, Mary. He’s the local vicar.”
With some difficulty, I kept a measured tone. “Yes, I met him during my recent stay at High Tor. He’s Mr. Walsh’s cousin, and a most amiable man.” I knew, however, he was extremely unlikely to be knowledgeable about draining fields. So his purpose in coming must be to speak to Papa about Kitty.
“Mr. Bennet, they cannot stay here. Not with the baby and our most unusual situation. They shall have to stay at the inn in Meryton.”
My parents continued to talk about accommodations for the guests, and my mind drifted away. Henry Walsh coming here! I would have to see him; there would be no avoiding it. How terribly uncomfortable it would be. I heard my father saying something about Netherfield Hall, but the words sounded distant and incomprehensible. A little glimmer of excitement was forming inside me, demanding all my attention.
Stupid girl. Nothing has changed. He no longer liked me; in fact, he believed I had purposely misled him as to my feelings. Add to that my unwillingness to overlook his faults, and I wondered if he could ever forgive me for rejecting him.
“When do they come?” I asked, interrupting my parents’ discussion.
“In a fortnight. Possibly longer,” Papa said. “I wish it didn’t have to wait, but the time had to suit all three.”
“Mr. Walsh,” Mama said, making a face. “I wish we did not have to accept help from a man who did not want our Kitty.”
I wondered if my younger sister had written to my parents, or if Jane had delivered the news. It suddenly occurred to me that after I’d left High Tor, Henry had done nothing to engage Kitty’s affections. He’d said she was no substitute for me, and it seemed he’d been sincere about that. Nor was he paying his addresses to any of the other young ladies from the ball. There was Miss Bellcourt, whom Jane had mentioned in her letter, but thus far what we knew of his dealings with her consisted of gossip and speculation. As far as I was aware, Henry had not actively sought a wife after I’d left. The realization left me shaken and forced me to question all that had passed between us, and all I had believed about him.
“I would remind you, Mrs. Bennet, we do not know the true nature of their association—only what Kitty believed it to be—and we must welcome him as we would any other guest.”
“Oh, I know, I know. But still, I do not like it,” she s
aid, lifting her brows.
“Try as I might, my dear, I find it difficult to put us in the way of your liking anything.” With that, he rose and said he was returning to his library.
The fortnight passed in a blur. I tried to think reasonably, telling myself Mr. Walsh could no longer be interested in me after my behavior at High Tor. Even if he were, would I be able to accept his regard, and be persuaded of its depth and strength? And that his interest went beyond viewing me as a mother for Amelia? These questions lingered in the back of my mind, but I could no longer deny my overwhelming desire to see him again, and to wonder what might transpire during his time with us.
What saved me from running mad was the rhythm of daily life with Felicity. After the evening when Lydia first paid attention to her daughter and I’d reacted so strongly, I closely examined my feelings, which I now realized were a mix of resentment and jealousy. How dare she call Felicity her “sweet girl”? What right did she have, when it was I who bathed Felicity, changed her, comforted her when she fussed, played with her, did everything but feed her? How I longed for that indelible bond.
Felicity slept the night through most of the time, but there were still occasions of her waking and fussing. I always tried to quiet her myself before rousing Lydia. I would tie on a fresh nappie, walk about the room with her, even let her suck the honey-and-water mixture from my finger. One night, when nothing seemed to help, I sank down on the rocking chair and held her close against me. Her little mouth puckered, making sucking sounds, and she turned her head toward my breast. Through my thin night rail, she found my nipple and began to suck. Her tiny hand shot up and pressed against me as she latched on.
A feeling of complete contentment stole over me, so tangible I ached with it. It was visceral, unlike anything I’d ever imagined. At last I was able to experience that most primal connection to the child whom I’d come to love and who meant everything to me. Any moment, I expected her to grow frustrated and cry because no milk was forthcoming, but she continued to suck until she finally drifted off to sleep. It seemed the sucking was what she needed, not the milk.
I crawled back in bed and lay there thinking about what I’d done. My nipples were tingling with the oddest sensation. I knew I shouldn’t have done it, yet it seemed so natural. What if Lydia or Mama had come in and discovered me? They would have been outraged if they found out, possibly have thought me deranged.
But I knew I would do it again, because suckling Felicity was the only way in which I could become her mother. Lydia didn’t want the job, so why not me? That was how I justified my actions, that night and in the days to come.
Unlike my mother, I held no improbable hopes regarding a reconciliation between Lydia and Wickham. But I suspected she might be communicating with him. Since the morning I’d seen her concealing the mysterious letter, I’d caught her reading other missives a few times, once in her chamber, when I entered unexpectedly. She quickly pressed the parchment into the pages of one of her magazines. I pretended not to have noticed. Another time, she expressed a desire to walk. When I offered to accompany her, she said I must stay to see to Felicity, although she was asleep and Mama was perfectly capable of looking after her for a short time even if she did wake up. I watched Lydia out the window as she strode away from the house. She hadn’t gone ten feet before I saw her extract a letter from her reticule and slow her pace while she read it. That answered the question of why she needed her reticule on a walk.
If she wasn’t writing to Wickham, who then? The man who may be Felicity’s true father? Lydia never spoke of him. Of course, she could not in front of our parents, but since she was generally indiscreet, why wouldn’t she have mentioned him to me? I began to fear that she was planning to run off with the man, taking Felicity with her. And then I would have nothing.
I fervently wished I could draw, so I might sketch Felicity. My sisters and I were woefully untutored in art. Since they had married, Jane and Lizzy both had begun instruction in drawing, but now they were occupied with their children. Not for the first time, I wished our parents had been more diligent about our education.
I had attended a few private parties at which a profile artist had done portraits of the guests. Some had simply studied their subject’s profile and cut. Other artists had used candlelight to cast a shadow and worked from that. In either case, it didn’t seem especially difficult.
I walked to Meryton and purchased some sheets of a delicate black paper, and that evening, persuaded Lydia to hold Felicity while I cut, using my sewing scissors. I had arranged two branches of candles so that Fee’s shadow would be cast upon the wall. Lydia complained of being inconvenienced, but Mama, to my surprise, stood off to the side, clucking and making faces so Felicity would stare at her and thus keep her profile to me.
The scissors felt awkward, and my fingers heavy and unwilling to move properly. When I finished, Lydia proclaimed, “La, Mary, that one looks like Sir William Lucas!”
Sadly, she was right. The face was much too long, the features too large. Blast! This was going to take some practice. “Let me try one more.”
“Well, hurry up, then,” Lydia said. “I’m tired of keeping Felicity from fidgeting.”
My second attempt was slightly improved, but not by much, and by the time I had finished, Fee was fussy and miserable. The profile no longer looked like Sir William, but rather resembled one of his grandchildren. I sighed. “Perhaps in daylight I shall simply try cutting the profile without using the shadow.”
I knew my humble efforts would never match the skills of a true profilist, but I was determined. Whenever I could convince Lydia and Mama to assist me, I cut profiles of Felicity, and at last created a few that did not look completely ludicrous. I asked Mr. Hill to frame one for me. If Lydia took her daughter away from me, I would have these likenesses of her to look upon every day, and remember the blessings she had brought to my life. The pure, undiluted love.
Chapter 17
I lay on the bed with Felicity asleep beside me, listening to her whispery breaths and the sucking sounds she made with her mouth. In the distance, I heard the clatter of carriage wheels, and a thrill of anticipation raced through me. Today was the day our guests were to arrive. The day I would see Henry Walsh again.
During the two weeks of waiting, I’d succeeded in banishing him from my thoughts much of the time. Felicity’s waking hours had increased, and I threw myself into her care and amusement. I’d given up my attempts to force Lydia to take more interest in her, having reached the point of feeling like her mother myself. I had put her to my breast several times when she awoke during the night. Miraculously, after a few minutes of sucking, she would fall back to sleep.
Felicity loved me. I could feel it in the way her hands reached out to explore my face, in her joyful smiles when she saw me first thing every morning, and in her nuzzling against me, so close I was sure she could feel the beat of my heart. When Lydia fed her, held her, showed her any affection, I fought against anger and jealousy, and an uneasy feeling that might have been fear of what was to come.
I bolted upright, my heartbeat speeding up at the sound of male voices out front. I moved quietly from the bed to the windows and pushed the curtain aside. A carriage had indeed pulled up, and from it emerged . . . Kitty! Mama would be surprised and delighted. Mr. Carstairs followed her. Charles and Mr. Walsh, on horseback, were dismounting and turning their horses over to a groom.
Mama was shouting, “They are here, Mr. Bennet, they are here! And Kitty, too!”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. That would be Lydia heading downstairs. She had likely spent the last hour preening while I lay stretched out with the baby. A sharp knock on the door and she burst in. “Mary, they’ve arrived! You must come down. Lord, you look a fright! Fix your hair and put on a different dress—that one is exceedingly wrinkled.”
“Shh! Felicity is still asleep.” She didn’t so much as glance at her daughter.
“I’ll come in a minute.” I walked down the hall to my own chamber and hastily washed, repinned my hair, and hesitated over what dress to wear. I settled on a pale yellow sprigged muslin. It was cut a bit low across the bust, so I threw a netted fichu around my neck and shoulders. Before going down, I peeked in at Felicity, wondering if I should put her in her cradle. Although she was now able to push herself up and turn over on her own, there was little risk in leaving her in the middle of the bed. She couldn’t move very far. And when she awakened she would cry, and I’d hear her. I glanced once more out the window, where introductions were in progress. Lydia was shaking Mr. Walsh’s hand. I turned and dashed downstairs and out the front door.
Charles noticed me first. “Mary!” he said, planting a kiss on my cheek. He turned and looked toward his friends. “You need no introduction to these gentlemen, I believe.”
“No, indeed.” My heart was thudding against my ribs, so marked I was sure everybody would notice. Mr. Walsh stepped forward and I held out my hand. His hand, warm and so familiar, claimed mine, and I said, “How do you do, sir?”
“Miss Bennet. You are well, I hope?”
“Quite well, thank you. How is Mrs. Walsh?”
“Just over a cold, but otherwise fine. She sends her best.” His eyes were veiled, and I thought I detected a slight clenching of his jaw.
I turned to his cousin. “Mr. Carstairs, how nice to see you again.”
“Miss Bennet. The pleasure is mine.” His eyes were dancing, and I assumed he knew Jane had revealed the secret.
The Pursuit of Mary Bennet Page 14