Netherfield had many beauties, and yet she had not allowed herself to become attached to them as she had her childhood home. She knew from the start that Netherfield was temporary, whereas it had seemed as if Longbourn would always be there waiting for her. It would not be, of course. In future, she would be admitted only at Mr. Collins’s good pleasure.
“I can see why you do, Miss Bennet,” he said, likewise sitting down. “It is a very pleasant spot. You are a great reader, I collect.”
“I believe I am. I do not say it as an idle boast, but because books have been my constant companions from a tender age until this day. It is well that I like it, I suppose, for extensive reading is a necessity in my current vocation.”
“Do your little charges share your thirst for knowledge? Are they good students who hang upon your every word? I ask because I well remember how resolutely I resisted my father’s every attempt to instill in me an education. What fits I must have given him in those days! It was only later that I came to appreciate the value of instruction, and I like to think I have since made up for my former indolence.”
“That is most commendable, sir. To answer your question, only one of my three pupils could be rightly called a true lover of learning. The other two get by with as little trouble about it as they can, although perhaps they will be converted in time as you were, Mr. Collins.”
“Yes, you mustn’t give up; there is hope even for the most reluctant student. What I could not abide as a child, I have since learnt to like exceedingly – mathematics, science, novels, histories, and even plays. The one thing I cannot quite make up my mind to enjoy is poetry. What about you, Miss Bennet? Are you fond of all kinds of verse – Shakespeare, Cowper, and the rest of that lot?”
“I am, decidedly so.”
“I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not vex and weary me. Will you now think the worse of your cousin for this admission? Has he confirmed for you what you already suspected – that he is a barbarian after all?”
“I would never say so.”
“Ah, and yet you are thinking it.”
Mary, flustered at not being sure if he spoke in jest or in earnest, answered with the simple truth. “Not at all. I was thinking that any man who can write as you do could never be thought a barbarian.”
“Indeed? I thank you for the compliment, but you presume more than you know. Although I do compose a tolerably good letter – a talent you have had no opportunity to verify – the only other time I put pen to paper is to scribble entries into a business ledger. That will hardly serve to establish me as a gentleman.”
It had been a stupid blunder on her part, which she now did her best to disguise. “You are correct, of course; I am in no position to judge. I only meant that, by the way you express yourself in speech, I assumed you would write at least as well.”
“Now, there I must caution you, Miss Bennet. Trusting assumptions is nearly as perilous as depending on rumor and wild imaginings, something you said you never do.”
Mary only nodded her assent and then turned the conversation to another line, reminding Mr. Tristan of her interest in hearing something of America.
Apparently pleased by the renewed request, Mr. Collins talked at some length on the subject. He began by assuring his cousin that, although there were vast, untamed regions farther west, the part of Virginia from whence he came was quite civilized indeed, the last of the red Indians having decamped decades earlier.
“I own a wheat farm, and some livestock on the side, which I have built up from modest beginnings. It is a sizable and rather profitable enterprise now, I am happy to say. I have left it all in the care of my good friend Calvin Beam. He and his sister…” Tristan trailed off.
“His sister?” said Mary, prompting him to continue.
“Yes, his sister. Polly is her name. They have the farm adjoining mine, and were some of the very first people I met when I arrived in the Shenandoah Valley, fresh from the boat, as you might say. They took me under their wings.”
Mary waited for him to continue. When he did not, she volunteered, “It must have been difficult to leave such good friends behind in order to come here.”
He seemed to remember himself and returned his attention to his companion. “True enough, Miss Bennet, but then sometimes one has to turn one’s back on the past in order to make a new start. Do not you agree?”
“I hardly know how to answer you, Mr. Collins. I suppose I can envision circumstances that would make it necessary or desirable to begin again elsewhere. If that be your situation, however, do you mean to sell your holdings in America? To make a clean break of it?”
“That would no doubt be the sensible course of action, and yet I cannot countenance the idea so soon. Virginia still feels like home, and memories – whether good or bad – must make it painful to permanently part with one’s home. Can you understand that, Miss Bennet?”
Mary stared back at him, suddenly confused, uncertain, and cut to the quick.
After a moment, he hastened on. “Oh, forgive me, my dear! What a dim-witted thing to say – to you of all people. Of course you would understand. Thanks to me, you understand all too well what it is to contemplate leaving your home forever!”
Mary could not keep a hint of bitterness from coloring her voice. “The difference being, sir, that you leave your home by choice, and we only by necessity.” She rose to go. “Now, since you have had your tour of your new property, I trust you will excuse me.”
Not waiting for a reply, Mary walked off in the direction of the house, feeling angry with herself as well as with her cousin. For months, she had schooled her mind to be entirely practical about this situation. She had vowed that her behavior would be civil, even cordial, to the inheritor of Longbourn. She had strictly charged her emotions not to interfere. And still she had failed in her resolve. This unexpected assault of sensibility was most unwelcome, and for inflicting it upon her, Mr. Tristan Collins must have the blame.
10
Vignettes
Mary was not obliged to encounter Mr. Tristan Collins again until supper, when Mrs. Bennet cheerfully occupied the preponderance of the gentleman’s notice herself with a running narrative of her own clever devising. Her chief object – other than his general entertainment – seem to be to acquaint him with the names and situations of all the principal residents of the vicinity, and to save him the trouble of forming his own opinions by telling him in advance exactly what he ought to think of each of his new neighbors.
Mary remained aloof from the conversation, in so far as she was able. With only three persons present, however, she could not escape entirely. Although her mother ignored her well enough, Mr. Collins repeatedly made an effort to include her by directing questions and comments her way. He was, by these gentle attentions, trying to make up for the pain he had unintentionally inflicted earlier; Mary was sure of it, and that knowledge went a long way toward mollifying her resentment. Still, she was relieved when the carriage arrived to transport her back to Netherfield and her duties.
On the short journey, Mary took herself to task for her recent lapse, inwardly reciting all her usual maxims about invoking logic and exerting will over the ugly chaos that unrestrained emotion tended to produce. She could not admire such displays in others, and neither would she permit a similar laxity in herself. Since no quantity of worry or tears would alter that which could not be changed – a truth she had in recent months seen tested to the utmost by her own mother – it was much better to accept these things with forbearance. In that, there was at least a degree of dignity.
When she arrived at Netherfield with her self-control firmly reinstated, Mary left her things in the front hall temporarily to go in search of Mrs. Brand. She found the housekeeper below stairs, still at her work. “I just wanted you to know that I am back,” she told her. “Is anything the matter?” she added, seeing the older woman in a state of apparent agitation.
“Oh, welcome home, Miss,” s
aid Mrs. Brand. “Have you had your supper?”
Mary nodded.
“Of course you have; I’m not thinking straight. The master just arrived this half hour past, and us not expecting him till the day after tomorrow.”
“Mr. Farnsworth is returned from London?”
“That he is. Cook is fit to be tied, and Miss Lavinia is all in a tizzy herself for not having been given any notice either. Well, I guess he can come and go just as he pleases, being that this is his house. But bless me, it would be a considerable help to know what he is about sometimes.”
“Well, Mr. Farnsworth shall just have to put up with things the way he finds them if he arrives without warning.”
“Brave words, my dear. Would you like to be the one who tells him so to his face?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Nor would I, so there we are. He says jump, and we can only set to leaping about like a gang of rabbits with our wooly white tails on fire.”
“I had best leave you to it then, Mrs. Brand. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, dearie, and watch your step on the way up. Master’s in fine fettle.”
Sound advice and Mary took care to heed it, surreptitiously retrieving her things from the hall and then taking the servants’ stairs to minimize the chance of encountering Mr. Farnsworth along the way. Remembering the last scene between them before they parted, she wished to avoid another potentially unpleasant encounter at the end of what had been a long day. No doubt he would wish to speak to her after his absence, to hear an account of the children’s progress, but tomorrow would surely be soon enough for that.
Seeing no one when she poked her head out from the stairs, Mary tiptoed down the hall and slipped into her bedchamber unobserved, closing the door softly behind her. Only then did she become aware that her heart was beating faster than it had any cause to do, as if she had barely escaped being molested by some fearsome beast. The thought brought a wry smile to her lips. Mr. Harrison Farnsworth did somewhat resemble a lumbering bear in manner, the way he prowled and growled about, and yet she should be ashamed to have him think her really afraid of him.
In any case, he had not been lying in wait for her as she had imagined. She had simply got caught up in her own game, sneaking about the house as if she had something to dread. Now that was silly, she admitted – infantile even, and it would not happen again.
Mary soon had opportunity to demonstrate the sincerity of her resolve, for she quickly discovered her reticule missing, presumably left behind in the front hall by accident. So down she went, this time using the main stairs and making no effort to conceal her presence. There it was, next to a potted plant where it had fallen unnoticed.
Mary stooped to retrieve the item.
“Ah, Miss Bennet. I was hoping to catch you.”
And she was caught indeed.
~~*~~
Mary jumped at the first note of the baritone voice from behind. It was not Mr. Farnsworth, however, only the footman.
“Easy on, Miss Bennet,” he said. “You are a might skittish tonight. Why, it’s only ol’ Clinton here, come to make himself useful.”
“Good evening, Clinton. Yes, you did startle me, and as you see, there is nothing to be done. I have already taken up my things and just come back down to retrieve my reticule. Thank you, all the same.”
“I suppose you know, then, that the master has returned from London. Quite unexpected, like, it were too. Very peculiar, if you ask me.”
“Well, I did not ask, and it is not for you to question Mr. Farnsworth’s comings and goings, Clinton,” said Mary in the same firm voice she used to reprimand the children. “You should remember that.”
“I do, Miss, and that’s a fact. It has been my honor to serve in this house nigh on fifteen years, and I didn’t rise to my current position by pokin’ my nose in where it’s not welcome… nor by failin’ to comprehend a thing or two ‘bout human nature neither. I keeps me eyes open, that’s all. And I knows the master’s wants and moods better ‘n anyone. A body has got to be always lookin’ about and noticin’ things so as to foresee what’s needed next. That’s what makes a good servant: the knack of anticipation.”
Mary glanced up at the footman’s youthfully handsome face, towering above her, and she wondered if she had badly misjudged him all along. “That is quite an astute observation, Clinton,” she said. “It might even be considered… profound.”
“I think I have surprised you, Miss Bennet, which is not easily done.” He winked at her and tapped his head with his forefinger. “I daresay there’s more goin’ on up here than you suspected.”
“Possibly so, Clinton. Now, you really must excuse me. I am quite fatigued.”
“Of course, Miss. Good night, Miss, and watch out for them bed bugs.”
Making no reply, Mary turned to retrace her way up the stairs, conscious that the footman followed her with his eyes as she went. Then she heard his steps starting up the treads behind her, and she involuntarily quickened her pace.
A voice – it sounded like Miss Lavinia – rang out from down the corridor of the east wing of the house, summoning Clinton. After pausing a moment, he relented and went to answer the call of duty.
Upon achieving her own apartment once more, Mary shut herself inside and waited for her heartbeat to return to its normal rate. Although there seemed no more justification for anxiety this time than the last, the feeling stubbornly persisted, and it was some minutes before she felt quite herself again. When at last she did, she went to check on the children. Although Michael was already fast asleep, and Gwendolyn was settled quietly as well, Grace still had her candle burning and a book before her face.
Mary came over to kneel at the child’s bedside. “What have I told you about reading late into the night, Gracie?” she whispered, gently removing the book from the girl’s hands.
“Oh, but Miss, I was just coming to the good part,” Grace protested.
Mary laid the book aside and with her fingers combed the loose strands of fawn-colored hair back from the girl’s eyes. “It will keep till tomorrow, I promise you. You must get your rest so that you will be at your best for your lessons in the morning. You do not wish to be outdone by your brother and sister, do you?”
Grace’s eyes grew wide. “No, Miss!”
“I thought not. Now, go to sleep.” Mary blew out the candle and rose to leave.
“Miss?”
“Yes, Grace? What is it?”
“Nothing, just that I am glad you are come back.”
Mary smiled to herself. “I was only gone for a day.”
“I know, but I am still glad,” the girl said as she rolled onto her side and closed her eyes.
Mary pulled up the coverlet, tucked it about the small form in the bed, and quietly retreated from the room.
Despite true weariness, Mary lay awake for an hour or more, pondering the singular event of the day – meeting the heir to Longbourn. On the whole, she had to admit to being fairly satisfied with him. That he would ultimately take her childhood home from her, she could not in her heart altogether forgive, though in her head she knew there was no logic to bearing such a grudge. If it had not been him, it would have been another. Then there was the chance that her mother’s plan would succeed in keeping Longbourn within the family. Although Mary dared not entertain serious hopes for herself, there was always Kitty. And, come what may, at least Mr. Tristan Collins was a pleasant fellow.
By way of obvious contrast, Mr. Farnsworth then sprang to Mary’s mind. Although he had his merits as well – sometimes less apparent than at others – “pleasant” was a word she would never think to apply to him. The term did not suit him at all, not even in his most favorable humors, and certainly not when the storm clouds gathered.
Fair weather or foul, however, she would see him on the morrow. Perhaps he had already put the squall that spoilt their last meeting out of his mind. It seemed likely enough, since the words and feelings of a governess could not be expected to l
eave a lasting impression on a man of Mr. Farnsworth’s consequence. Though she flattered herself that she occupied a position significantly above the household’s servants, the master himself might not always perceive the distinction.
~~*~~
Mary did not have long to wait next morning; before breakfast Mr. Farnsworth sent for her.
“Come,” the familiar voice boomed out when she knocked on the library door.
“Good morning, Mr. Farnsworth, and welcome home,” she said in her sunniest tone upon entering. “We did not look for you until Tuesday.”
“Quite right, Miss Bennet. And depend on it, my sister has already taken me to task for catching her unawares. I hope you do not mean to scold me as well.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Good. I called you in to make peace, and that would have started us off in the wrong direction entirely.”
“I have not the pleasure of understanding you, sir. Make peace? Whatever for?”
“Ah, I see you are prepared to forget the little skirmish that took place on this very spot, when we were last in this room together.”
“As you say, sir.”
“Very well, then. Perhaps the less said about it the better. Now, how do the children do with their studies?”
Relieved to have sidestepped a renewal of hostilities, Mary willingly moved on to the new topic. Even here, though, a little diplomacy was needed.
Her first impulse when asked about the children was always to expound on Grace’s rapid progress – the result of her natural gifts augmented by a superior outlook. But Mary was careful to mention Gwendolyn and Michael in as positive a light as she was able to shine in their direction. Neither of them lacked native intelligence; it was the want of proper application that prevented their excelling.
At eight, Michael still had time, and perhaps he would do better once he got to Eton. Or it could be that, like Mr. Tristan Collins, he would come to a proper appreciation for learning only later on. Either way, she had done what she could, and Michael’s education would soon be in other hands.
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