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by Winslow, Shannon


  “I trust, my dear cousin, that shall not always be the case.”

  “I very much hope you are right, Mr. Tristan. Indeed, I look forward to it.”

  ~~*~~

  Mary returned to Netherfield that evening invigorated and refreshed – for her time away and for the knowledge that she would see her cousin again in only two days. She had surprised him – and herself – by owning how much she had enjoyed their shared escapade. In doing so, she felt as if she had passed an important milestone. To admit to a joy was to admit to vulnerability, and the voice of caution in her head always protested loudly against taking the smallest risk of that kind. This time, however, she was glad she had found the courage to ignore it.

  Another cause for satisfaction was that she had done her duty with regard to her mother’s demand for her to promote her sister’s good qualities to Mr. Collins. She had indeed endeavored to do so, although she questioned to what effect. She also began to question if the two would even suit each other. The more she learnt of her cousin, the less likely she thought it. Kitty might initially find him appealing, with his good looks and genial nature. Still, that was no basis for a marriage. Besides, what would be in it for Mr. Tristan? There was no fortune to be gained. He did not prize beauty; he had said so himself. And he certainly would not find in Kitty the well-informed mind or the adventurous spirit he did seem to value. No, it would never do, and all their mother’s machinations would come to naught in the end. In fact, a burgeoning hope in Mary’s heart whispered that Mr. Tristan might more rightfully prefer herself.

  Immediately upon reentering Netherfield house, Mary detected a heightened degree of activity. Usually by that time of night, the place was nearly silent. The family would have generally retired to their private apartments, and only a few servants – a scullery maid or two, and a couple of footmen – would still be actively about their duties. Instead, lights were ablaze all over the house and people scurried everywhere. Apparently, preparations had already begun for the dinner on Tuesday.

  None of these efforts need concern her, Mary knew. A governess’s job at such a time was simply to keep the children out of the way, which was in truth not vastly different from any other day. Except for their nightly visits with their father, the children were expected to be little seen and even less often heard.

  Mary’s only added chore in consideration of the special event would be to contrive something to wear to it. She could no longer claim deep mourning as an excuse for keeping strictly to her dark colors on a festive occasion. Yet there was no time or justification for ordering a new gown either. She would simply have to fashion something suitable from materials at hand. For that purpose, she had brought with her from Longbourn the best one of her old gowns and her entire store of haberdashery supplies for reworking it.

  Upon achieving her room, Mary pulled the green pin-dotted muslin from her bag and evaluated it with a more critical eye. She could not approve of what she saw. Strange that she had never before noticed how desperately plain the garment was, not only by London standards but even when judged against the considerably lower mark set by women of local society. Perhaps if she shortened the sleeves and added a bit of lace at the neck it would be passable. Mary sighed and went to hang the gown, lest the wrinkles should set and make matters worse.

  “You do not mean to wear that horrid thing to the dinner, do you?”

  Mary instantly recognized the voice and tone of her eldest pupil. She carefully closed the door to the wardrobe before turning and answering. “Good evening, Gwendolyn. I did not hear you come in. As to my gown, it will do very well. A woman’s beauty comes from within, from the quality of her mind and the purity of her character, not from outer adornments. You will find it says so quite particularly in the first letter of St. Peter.”

  “Spare me the sermon. I have had one already today in church, and that was quite enough.” The girl, wearing only a nightdress, dropped into the chair beside the bookcase. She pulled a volume from the shelf and began idly paging through it.

  “Is there something you wanted, Gwendolyn?” Mary asked.

  “Wanted?” She said vaguely, flipping another page.

  “Yes, why have you come in? You do not ordinarily prefer my room to yours.”

  “Ordinarily not. It is only that tonight my sister is being more than ordinarily annoying.” Suddenly, she clapped the book shut and dropped it on the floor with a thud. “You would think that in a house of this size, there might be rooms enough that I could have a bedchamber to myself instead of being forced to share one with a child!”

  Mary calmly picked up the book, returning it to its proper place on the shelf. “You are nearly a woman now, Gwendolyn, it is true. I suppose it is natural that you should feel the need for more privacy. Have you spoken to your father about this, or to your aunt?”

  “I did ask Papa. He said I was just being silly, and that Grace would miss me if I were to have my own room.”

  Having no privacy herself at present – as exampled by her pupil’s very presence – Mary could well relate to the girl’s predicament. She then turned her mind back to when she was of the same age. Longbourn was a fraction the size of Netherfield, and yet she had not needed to share her bedchamber with anybody. It had in fact been her refuge, her one sanctuary. Especially when bad weather trapped them all indoors, it proved the only place in the house where she could go to be by herself – away from the silly talk of her mother and the wild behavior of her younger sisters, to be consoled by the more rational company of a book. The personalities in this case could not be compared to her own family, but the principal remained the same. “Would you like me to speak to your father for you?” Mary heard herself asking.

  Gwendolyn hopped to her feet and clasped her hands together under her chin in a gesture of supplication. “Oh, would you, Miss?” she pleaded.

  Mary already regretted making the offer, and yet could not retract it. “I will if you wish it, although I doubt that my opinion will carry much weight. Would you not rather speak to your Aunt Lavinia instead? She is acting mistress of this house, and your father is sure to take a hint from her more kindly than from me.”

  “She still thinks of me as a child and would not understand. But you do, Miss. I can see that you do.”

  “Very well, then. I will do what I can. You must not get your hopes up, though. As I said, I seem to have precious little influence with your father of late. Now, it is time for bed, so off you go.”

  To Mary’s astonishment, the girl threw her arms about her, just for a moment, and then left without another word.

  Perhaps she was making a little progress with Gwendolyn at last. Still, as much as she truly wished to succeed for her young charge’s sake, Mary judged she would need to approach the topic with extreme caution in her next interview with the girl’s father, which would likely be at least a few days off. Mr. Farnsworth might think her officious for even broaching a subject not strictly related to the children’s education. She felt she had to try, however. In the meantime, she would turn the question over in her mind, hoping to hit upon the best strategy for attempting it. She desired that he would at least respect her views, even if he were unwilling to comply with her request. Yet it seemed far more likely he would entirely disregard her opinion or, worse still, berate her for daring to have one.

  Before retiring to bed herself, Mary penned an overdue letter to Kitty, who had written the week before, asking for an assessment of Mr. Collins. Mary had not known how to best answer the question – still did not – and yet she had a responsibility to try. It was unfair to keep her sister in suspense any longer.

  Dearest Kitty,

  You must forgive me for not writing sooner. I needed some little time to form a proper opinion of our cousin before presuming to share it with anybody else. No doubt Mama’s report has been most generous in its praise, but you must realize she would recommend the man to you (and you to him) even if he were only half a gentleman. Her determination to see you married to
the heir to Longbourn has not abated in the least. And now she has secured lodgings for him at Pemberley when he comes soon to visit his sister, with the expectation that the two of you will be much thrown together during his stay.

  I have done as you asked. I have made myself agreeable and entertained our cousin to the best of my abilities. In truth, it has been no hardship. Quite the reverse, for Mr. Tristan’s company suits me very well, and I do flatter myself that he has likewise come to value my friendship. Our tastes and philosophies seem to coincide in nearly every particular. That does not mean you will like him, however. In fact, it is a rather strong argument against the idea, since what you and I admire is almost never the same thing.

  Although I believe you will find our cousin outwardly not unappealing, you are so very, very different in all your inclinations and ways, that I consider it as quite impossible you should ever be tolerably happy together. Surely, you will both perceive this mutual incompatibility at once, and there will be no danger of an attachment forming on either side.

  It will only remain for Mama to be dealt with when the time comes, and I think you may be easy on that head as well. Although you might feel yourself unequal to standing against her, I am certain Mr. Tristan is not a man to be bullied into an alliance against his will and against all common sense. Of course, it is possible that you have made great progress on your own side and none of this concerns you any longer. That would be by far the happiest conclusion. If you were to come home already engaged to somebody else, Mama could have nothing more to say.

  I must close now for I have much to do tomorrow. Mr. Tristan is to be the honored guest at a dinner here at Netherfield on Tuesday, a dinner I am obliged to attend. So, I must scramble myself into something suitable to wear by then. How I wish you were here to assist me, for you are much cleverer about fashion than I shall ever be.

  Do not hide yourself away in Derbyshire forever, Kitty. Once you see that it is quite safe, you must return to Longbourn, to your mother and sister who miss you.

  With affection,

  Mary

  Mary reread the letter to be sure it would serve. The information it contained must relieve much of her sister’s anxiety over Mr. Collins’s coming, which was her primary purpose. Was she justified, however, in writing so sanguinely, as if there were no danger to any of them in the situation? Or was it merely wishful thinking on her part?

  Mary carefully folded the two crisp sheets of paper, covered edge to edge in her tight, even hand. She dripped hot red wax across the edge of the flap and sank her monogrammed seal into it.

  Only time would tell.

  13

  Wardrobe Woes

  The next day, Mr. Farnsworth’s three offspring worked quietly at their lessons round the child-sized table in the schoolroom. Their governess, dividing her time between them and an undertaking of her own, supervised from one of the chairs by the window, where the light was far better for working the fine stitches her project demanded. Mary had nearly finished attaching the lace to the neckline of her gown for the following night when she heard the door creak open. She looked up, expecting to see Jenny come from the kitchen with the tea things, but finding the tray in a pair of more refined hands instead.

  “Why, Miss Farnsworth, this is quite a surprise,” said Mary, rising at once and laying aside her work. “Here, do allow me to take that from you.”

  “Nonsense. I am quite capable of carrying a tea tray these twenty feet, I should think.” And she did so, setting it down on the table next to Mary. “Good morning, children,” she said, turning to them with an unenthused smile.

  “Good morning, Aunt Lavinia,” they answered in near-perfect unison before returning their attention to their assignments.

  “Then you did not carry that heavy thing all the way from the kitchen?” Mary continued.

  “Up three flights of stairs? Do be serious, Miss Bennet. I only took it from the maid when I met her in the passageway.”

  “Ah, I see. Will you be staying to take tea with me, then?”

  “I did wish to speak to you, so perhaps I shall.”

  Mary removed her sewing from the other chair, so her guest could sit down, and draped the carefully reworked gown across her own lap.

  “What have you there?” asked Lavinia.

  “It is only a bit of sewing that I am working on in my spare moments – dressing up an old gown a little.”

  “Good lord! That cannot be what you intend to wear tomorrow night.”

  “I am afraid it is the best I own, so it will have to do,” Mary said defensively, with a glance in Gwendolyn’s direction. “I cannot see that it is any of your concern, Miss Farnsworth. As for me, devotion to finery is something I neither admire in others nor aspire to myself. I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed.”

  “Though you may not care what you look like, Miss Bennet, I most certainly do. As a member of this household, regardless of in what capacity, your appearance reflects on Mr. Farnsworth. I told him it was a mistake to include a governess at our table, but he claimed it was unavoidable, because of your relation to the guest of honor. I think you shall make him sorry he resolved on it.”

  “Miss Farnsworth, I doubt that your brother will even notice my gown, let alone be offended by its simplicity. It is so very ordinary as to quite blend into the background. And after all, is that not where you would prefer me to remain?”

  Miss Farnsworth fixed Mary with an appraising gaze for a long minute. Then in a light, almost playful tone she said, “Perhaps you are right, Miss Bennet. It hardly signifies what a governess wears; no one will remark her presence in any event. So we shall say no more about your gown. Tea, Miss Bennet?”

  “Yes, may I pour you some?”

  “No! You must allow me,” said Miss Farnsworth, rising to do the honors. When she took a step forward to hand a steaming cup to her companion, her toe seemed to catch on the rug and she lurched ahead. Although the lady quickly caught herself, avoiding a fall, the jolt caused the full cup to slide off its saucer and fly through the air. It landed squarely in Mary’s lap, the black brew being instantly absorbed into the fabric of the pale green muslin garment that still rested there.

  Mary jumped to her feet with a cry, and the sodden mass fell away before the hot liquid could soak through.

  “Oh, how clumsy of me!” exclaimed Miss Farnsworth. “You might have been burned, and I bet your gown is ruined too.”

  Seeing the heap of stained and crumpled fabric on the floor, with bits of broken china scattered randomly about it, Mary’s heart sank. “Now what am I to wear?” she asked herself aloud.

  “I am quite certain that, under the circumstance, you had much rather not come to the dinner,” said Miss Farnsworth. “I shall be happy to make your excuses to my brother. And you know your cousin shall not miss you, not when surrounded by the best company that can be had in the area.”

  Without waiting for Mary to recover enough from her shock to reply, Miss Farnsworth bustled from the schoolroom. She returned an hour later, however, with a sour expression on her countenance.

  Mary looked up expectantly. “Yes, Miss Farnsworth, what is it? Did you come back for another cup of tea perhaps?”

  “Very droll, Miss Bennet.” She heaved a great sigh and then seemed resigned to get on with unpleasant business. “I am here because my brother has proposed a happy solution to your dilemma. Guessing that we are approximately the same size, he has kindly suggested that I might furnish you something to wear tomorrow night. Was that not clever of him to think of it?”

  “I… it is very good of him, to be sure. But is the idea acceptable to you, Miss Farnsworth?”

  “It seems I have no choice in the matter. So, if you would care to come by my rooms tomorrow – when you are finished with your duties, of course – then I shall see what can be done for you.” As soon as Mary nodded her accord, the lady turned and hastened from the room again.

  Mary knew not what to think of this development. Th
ere was a certain satisfaction that Miss Lavinia’s efforts to exclude her from the party had failed. On the other hand, however uncomfortable that lady would be to loan the governess a gown, Mary suspected her own discomfort at borrowing one would be even greater. Yet they were both bound to obey Mr. Farnsworth’s edict. At least it meant she would see Mr. Tristan again before he left for the north. In her estimation, that was worth a great deal.

  ~~*~~

  Except for the hour spent with Monsieur Hubert in the music room, which occupied her completely, Mary’s mind perpetually wandered the next day from her schoolroom duties to the prospect of the evening’s special dinner, wavering between eager anticipation and dread at regular intervals. One moment, the imminent event seemed to hold all the promise of spring and Christmas rolled together, and she pictured herself emerging admired and triumphant. The next, she foresaw certain embarrassment and disaster. Nevertheless, she was determined to take courage and see it through. She had little choice.

  When she had completed the day’s lessons, Mary left the children in the nursery maid’s charge and found her way to Miss Lavinia’s suite of rooms, as instructed. She paused long enough for two deep breaths and then knocked decisively.

  The mistress’s petite personal maid opened the door a few inches.

  “Is that Miss Bennet?” Miss Farnsworth called from somewhere within.

  “Yes, milady,” the maid answered.

  “Well, let her in, then, Hutchens,” came the order.

  The maid stepped back and pulled the door wide.

  Taking three steps into the apartment, Mary had to stop and stare about herself. She had never entered the place before and could not have imagined what she found there.

  Unlike the rest of the house, which was decorated with tasteful restraint, every surface of Miss Farnsworth’s suite seemed smothered in excess. Set against a backdrop of bold, paisley-printed wallpaper, every window and piece of furniture lay shrouded in heavy brocade fabrics and weighed down by a congregation of guilt-framed paintings, porcelain figures, and trinkets of every description.

 

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