~~ * ~~
The Darcys and the Bingleys made ready to take themselves off the following day, over the violent objections of Mrs. Bennet.
“It really is too cruel!” she told her two eldest. “Deserting me as though you had not a care in the world. I see how it will be. My trials shall soon be forgot. I shall be left all alone, nothing to do except to await the inevitable, being cast out into the gutter like so much rubbish.”
“Oh, Mama!” cried Jane in distress. “You must not say such things.”
“Particularly since not a word of it is true,” declared Elizabeth. “Kitty will be with you, Mama, and Mary every Sunday. If any crisis should occur, the rest of us can be here in three or four days’ time. As for having nothing to do, that is hardly the case either.” She softened her tone, and laid a hand on Mrs. Bennet’s arm. “Life goes on, and as soon as you can bear to, you really must begin collecting your things – that is to say, packing up whatever possessions you wish to take with you when the time comes.”
This, not surprisingly, brought forth a new torrent of emotion from the ailing widow, who needed to be calmed and cajoled into tolerable order before her daughters could in good conscience finally depart. She was then assigned over to Mrs. Hill’s patient ministrations, and Jane and Elizabeth made their way downstairs.
Mary then took this, her last chance, to correct a perceived wrong. Her conscience had been niggling at her the last two days, telling her that she should have taken more of an interest in her elder sisters’ concerns. Instead of bowing out of the conversation whenever it turned to domestic matters, she might have asked the customary questions and listened with solicitude to their talk about their offspring. Good manners called for this much, and her own sense of what was due her sisters demanded it. Moreover, how could she hope to maintain those family ties, which she valued more than she cared to admit, if she herself were unwilling to make an effort?
She had paid her penance with Jane at an opportune moment the day before, asking, “Am I right in thinking that the twins are five years of age now?”
“Nearly six,” said Jane, proudly. “I daresay you would get on famously with little Charles, Mary, for he is grown into a great lover of books, like yourself. I am afraid Frances Jane is a bit of a tomboy instead, preferring to take her play out of doors or in the stables. Mrs. Grayling is forever scolding her for muddying her frocks.”
“Perhaps the girl will grow out of it,” Mary suggested. “And the other two children?”
“Oh, Phoebe is a proper lady already, though she is only four! And John, the baby, has not yet revealed to us much of his future character. They are, every one of them, so very dear.” Jane daubed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And now it seems that God may see fit to bless me with at least one more.”
“Naturally you miss them, being away so long… all except this new one, of course… whom you carry with you…” Mary trailed off awkwardly.
“Yes.” Jane smiled and reached out to squeeze her sister’s hand. “How kind you are to ask after them, Mary. I wish you all could become better acquainted, but then, even in your present circumstances, you are not left without children to love. You must by now have formed quite a fond attachment to the Netherfield family.”
It had been simpler to go along with that assumption than to attempt correcting it. There was at least a little truth in what Jane said, after all. One could not spend more than three years with a family without developing some kind of feeling for them. So what purpose could it possibly serve to describe the true state of affairs, the intricacies of which she did not fully understand herself? No doubt in Jane’s world children were always both dear and dearly loved; their parents were always kind, patient, and benignly indulgent. In such a household, a governess’s job must be simple indeed – no divided loyalties, no competing priorities, no complications. “Yes, of course,” Mary had agreed, “I am quite attached.”
Now, with one more act of reparation, her conscience would be satisfied. Though the Bingleys’ smart carriage had just started off, the Darcys’ equally excellent equipage was not yet made fully ready for departure, so Mary drew Elizabeth aside. “I regret that my obligations have left us with so little time to talk whilst you were here,” she said.
“I regret it as well, for I would have liked to hear more about your situation at Netherfield. Does it still agree with you, Mary?”
“Every situation has its little vexations and grievances, I believe. Yet on the whole, I am satisfied. And it has allowed me to study music more seriously than I might have otherwise, which is a great pleasure to me.”
“Oh, yes, how you have raved about your Monsieur Hubert! Do you suppose he could be persuaded into taking on a student as far north as Derbyshire? I thought perhaps five was a bit too young to commence music lessons, but Mr. Darcy insists that, as Bennet shows such an interest in the piano-forte, he should not be denied the advantage of early instruction. There is some justification for optimism, I suppose, since a good measure of natural talent can be found on both sides of the boy’s family, with his Aunt Mary and his Aunt Georgiana being so musically inclined.”
“I will be happy to propose the idea to Monsieur Hubert. I only wish I had been so fortunate as to have such a fine music master in my youth. How much more I might then have accomplished! But enough about me; I meant to ask after your children, Lizzy. I trust they are all three well and strong.”
“I thank you, yes!” said Elizabeth, her countenance brightening at the enquiry.
“I am very glad to hear it.”
“They are, thank heaven, fine, healthy boys,” Elizabeth continued. “Bennet is quite the apple of his father’s eye, and it is much the same with Edward and James. You see, Mary, I live in a household of men, and I must make the best of it. Fortunately, I would as soon sit atop a saddle these days as any other place, so I shall stand some chance of keeping up with them as they grow older.” She turned her address to her husband, who had that moment entered the parlor. “There is nothing – or almost nothing – like the thrill of a good ride. Is not that your opinion as well, Mr. Darcy?”
“So I believe I have said on more than one occasion, my dear. Now, if you will make your good-byes, we can be on our way.”
A lingering look passed between the two, and Elizabeth reached out to briefly rest a hand against the side of her husband’s face. Then, seeming to remember herself, she withdrew it again, embraced her sister, and said farewell.
Mary watched them go from the porch, conscious for the first time of a twinge of envy surfacing from somewhere deep within her soul. Never had she craved great wealth and its comfortable trappings; these things did not tempt her to covet her sister’s situation. No, it was that stolen glimpse of tenderness she had seen upon Mr. Darcy’s face when his usual mask of reserve dropped for a moment as he regarded his wife. What must it be like to be looked at in such a way by such a man? Mary could not help but wonder. She could only suppose that it was a thing very much to be prized.
A chill wind penetrated her shawl, reminding Mary where she was. She quickly discarded her musings as profitless, and returned to the house with her jaw firmly set. Tomorrow, at first light, she decided, she would take up her duties at Netherfield again. What must be done might as well be done at once.
4
Netherfield
“Oh, Miss Bennet!” Mrs. Brand, the housekeeper, burst forth in her high-pitched, thready voice upon seeing the governess entering the house. “What a relief that you are come back to us at last, and I do not care who hears me say it. We’ve not managed the children even tolerably well in your absence. Bless me, how troublesome they are sometimes! The girls are not too bad, but young Michael is always up to some pretty piece of mischief. I confess that I have very little notion what to do with him, and I daresay Miss Lavinia has even less. Well, never mind all that. How are things at Longbourn, my dear? How does your poor mother do?”
Although somewhat overpowered by this welcoming on
slaught, Mary was nonetheless pleased to see Mrs. Brand, who was the closest thing to a friend she had at Netherfield. “I am sorry to report that Mama has not taken the change in her circumstances very well,” she answered. “I thank you, though, for asking after her. Now, Mrs. Brand, I will go up to my bedchamber, if I may, before reporting to the schoolroom.”
“Of course, of course,” said the housekeeper. “You must be tired after your ordeal. Clinton will take your cases up. Clinton!” she called out.
“No, really, Mrs. Brand,” Mary protested, “I am not the least bit tired, and I am quite capable of managing by myself.”
“Nonsense, Miss. You are a gentleman’s daughter, and you shall receive your due in this house as long as I have anything to say about it. Poor Mrs. Farnsworth, God rest her soul, always made sure of that, and I carry on in her stead. Besides, moving cases is a footman’s job. What else has he got to do, I should like to know? Oh, there you are, Clinton. Do take Miss Bennet’s things up for her.”
The footman nodded his acknowledgement, and then allowed his hooded eyes to travel once over the governess as he turned to collect her luggage.
Mary followed several steps behind as he surmounted the wide, curving staircase and started down the dim corridor that accessed the family apartments. Her room was at the far end, adjacent to and adjoining those of the Farnsworth children, the two girls on one side and the young master on the other.
Clinton opened the door and stepped back, giving Mary just enough leeway to pass by him and into her bedchamber. With his gloved hand, he motioned for her to do so.
Mary stopped where she stood and regarded the footman critically. He was a well looking man of somewhere above thirty years of age, no doubt chosen for his position because of his superior height. Yet the elegant livery he wore could not disguise his humble origins or unrefined manners. “You may leave my things and go,” she said. “I will not detain you from your other duties any longer.”
“’Tain’t no trouble, Miss,” he said with a grin. “I’d be more’n happy to stay and help you unpack your dainties.”
“Mind your place, man, and do as I say!”
“O’right, I’m goin’. Meant no offense, only that you can count on ol’ Clinton if you needs anythin’ else toted, or shifted, and such like.”
Mary watched him go, then shut herself inside her room and looked about. It was just as she had left it – a very pleasant apartment, perhaps not as finely furnished as those belonging to the family, yet large and handsomely appointed nevertheless. The closets were adequate, the bed itself more than comfortable, and the view overlooked a green meadow where daffodils bloomed each spring. To either side of the window, her own collection of books, which she had brought with her from Longbourn, lined a low bank of shelves. Should these fail to satisfy her appetite during her few free hours, she could hope to be granted special permission to pick from the hundreds of volumes in the library downstairs, or to play the fine piano-forte that resided in the music room next door to it.
She could not have wished for anything more perfect than to be allowed to cloister herself in the welcoming seclusion of those two hallowed rooms, whiling away the hours unhurried and unmolested by the demands of others. Living as she did, surrounded by these intellectual delights, such imaginings did occasionally tempt her. It was pure fancy, however, for only a daughter of the house could ever expect such privileges.
Mary had not been given more than ten minutes to reacquaint herself with her surroundings when she was reminded of her true situation. The door from the young master’s room swung wide into hers, and a stout boy of eight appeared.
“So you are come back,” he stated flatly.
“Yes, Michael, as you see. But please recall that you are always to knock before entering a lady’s room, even mine. Now, unless there is some dire emergency…”
Before she could finish, another door – the one directly opposite the first – opened as well, and two slight figures in yellow sprigged muslin issued through it. The taller one, a pretty dark-eyed girl of thirteen, announced from the doorway, “We heard a noise and came to discover what it was. Now I see it is only you, Miss Bennet. You stayed away so long that I thought perhaps you would never return.”
“Of course I have returned, Gwendolyn,” Mary answered evenly. “I always keep my obligations, as any lady should.”
The other girl – her sister’s inferior in beauty and by two years in age – pushed past and came to Mary’s side. “Well, I for one am very glad of it, Miss! May we have a music lesson today?”
“By all means, Grace. I hope you have not neglected your practicing whilst I was away. Monsieur Hubert will not be pleased if you have.”
“Oh, no, Miss! I practiced every day!”
“Good girl,” said Mary, patting her shoulder. “Now then, we shall resume our regular studies directly, but you must allow me time to get my bearings first. So, return to what you were doing, all of you, and I will summon you shortly.” With that, Mary began shooing the three children back whence they had come, closing the doors behind them.
There were no locks, of course, and hence no real privacy. In five minutes, her solitude might be interrupted once again, although she told herself this was no very great difference from her prior existence at Longbourn, where at any moment her mother or one of her sisters might break in upon her without so much as one word of apology. There, however, her modest bedchamber had belonged more exclusively to her than did this grander one, which was only designated for her temporary use.
Her services would not be wanted at Netherfield forever. Michael was to go away to Eton in the fall, and the girls were nearly grown. Employment of six or seven years more would be the utmost she could reasonably hope for. After that, she would be in search of a new situation. She could not expect to find anything half so convenient again – with a family of quality and in the very neighborhood of her home. Yet she was not at all afraid of being long unemployed. She knew there were places in town, offices where inquiry would soon produce something.
That was a long way off, however, and Mary resolved to think of it no more, quoting a memorized scripture to herself. “Take therefore no thought for the morrow; for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
~~ * ~~
Life at Netherfield settled once more into its customary pattern. Other than an hour or two in the evening, when they were usually suffered to enjoy their father’s company, the three children were left chiefly to Miss Bennet’s supervision. From Monday through Saturday, she not only oversaw their education, she took every meal and excursion with them as well. The mornings were reserved for academics – mathematics, geography, literature, a little Latin, and the modern languages – and the afternoons for outdoor exercise and the arts. Masters were engaged to periodically come to them from town, but it was the governess’s office to provide rudimentary training in dance, drawing, and all forms of music.
Mr. Harrison Farnsworth’s affairs kept him a good deal in London, so Mary saw little of him those first weeks back. This suited her well enough, as she could then attend to her duties without fear of falling under his critical eye. He unsettled her, as he seemed to do the rest of Netherfield’s inmates to one degree or another.
By contrast, Mrs. Farnsworth had been a lenient, even indolent, mistress. Mary, upon first coming to the house, now nearly four years past, had mistaken the pale creature for at least five-and-thirty, though, as she later learnt, the lady fell far shy of that mark. No doubt the strain of having such a domineering husband – and also of having been brought five times to childbed with only three living offspring to show for her trouble – had taken its toll upon her constitution and nerves.
In those former days especially, the atmosphere at Netherfield altered perceptibly with the master’s presence. An air of apprehension crept over the place from top to bottom, as if the house itself held its breath in anticipation of some unknown outburst o
r accident. Thus, it required nothing more than Mr. Farnsworth’s suddenly coming into a room to start his wife and servants fidgeting and his children forgetting how to behave.
Mary had observed the phenomenon from her earliest days on the premises, and she could not help but feel fiercely sympathetic on Mrs. Farnsworth’s account.
“So, this is the new governess,” declared the lord and master at his first setting eyes on Mary those years ago.
Mr. Farnsworth was not an especially imposing man to look at, being only a little above the average in height and build, yet his autocratic tone made even this simple statement of fact sound like a challenge – daring her to deny the charge.
Rising to face him, Mary had only nodded curtly in response.
“Yes, my dear,” his wife, who looked more frayed about the edges than usual, hastened to say. “This is Miss Bennet, Miss Mary Bennet from Longbourn. You will recall that I told you about her. She is a most accomplished and genteel young woman, and I am sure she will do very well by the children.”
“I will be the judge of that, if you please, Madam.”
“Naturally,” Mrs. Farnsworth murmured, dropping her eyes to her lap, where her hands were tightly clasped.
A maid, who had come in with the tea tray, cringed as she set it down with more clatter than she intended.
“Must you make such an infernal racket?” Mr. Farnsworth barked, darting an eye in the direction of the offender.
“Sorry, sir,” said the maid as she shrank from the room.
“The rest of you, out as well,” he said, pointing to the door. “Mrs. Farnsworth, kindly take your children and go. I wish to speak to Miss Bennet.”
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