B00BKPAH8O EBOK

by Winslow, Shannon

  At Tristan’s suggestion, they prodded their mounts into first a canter and then finally a full gallop over the last mile to Netherfield. With the warm breeze blowing across her cheeks and whistling past her ears, Mary could not help but feel some of that same exhilaration she had originally expected from when they would at last have their ride together. In fact, she was laughing by the time they reined in their horses at the entrance to the stables.

  Tristan slid to the ground first and then helped Mary dismount from Arielle. At that moment, Mr. Farnsworth emerged from the doorway of the stables.

  “Ah, Mr. Collins,” he said stiffly. “Thank you for returning Miss Bennet, but I can take over from here. We need not detain you any longer.”

  “It has been my pleasure, believe me, Mr. Farnsworth. It was good of you to spare Mary today.”

  “Can I give you a leg up, then?”

  “No need,” answered Tristan, throwing himself atop his horse and swinging into position. “Good day, Cousin Mary,” he said, tipping his hat before riding away.

  Once her cousin was a little down the lane, Mary turned to her employer. “That was rude of you, sir.”

  “Was it?” he said absently, turning Arielle over to a groom.

  “You know very well it was,” Mary scolded, starting toward the house. “You practically warned Mr. Collins off your land.”

  Mr. Farnsworth fell into step beside her. “Perhaps I am not feeling sociable today. What do you say to that?”

  “I say is a great pity, for you have a house full of guests. Did your expedition fail to live up to expectations, Mr. Farnsworth? Is that what has put you in such a foul mood?”

  “Me? In a foul mood? Never. I am only a little concerned for one of the carriage horses, which has come up lame. That is why you found me in the stables rather than with my guests. Oh, I hope you did not think I waited there in compliment to you, Miss Bennet.”

  “Not at all. Why on earth should I?”

  “No reason, really.” After a moment he continued sardonically, “So it is for your beloved cousin that you have thrown me over, I suppose.”

  “What?”

  “No doubt you are his favorite as well. I see how it is.”

  It was too much – salt in a fresh wound. “No, Mr. Farnsworth! You see nothing, for there is nothing to be seen. Only a blind person or a fool could suppose that Mr. Tristan Collins thought of me in that way, that he could ever have preferred…” Mary broke off and strode purposefully away from him toward the service entrance, a place the master of the house would hardly dare to follow.

  35

  Change in the Air

  With guests in the house, the Farnsworth children did not go down to take their supper with their father as they often did. They ate in the nursery instead that evening, and Mary with them. At least with the children, there was no question of awkwardness or embarrassment for her. They could know nothing of her humiliation that day, nothing of her disappointed hopes. In fact, her three young friends seemed her only consolation. Whilst they were still in her charge, she had companionship, useful employment, and some measure of purpose to each day.

  “How was your outing to St. Albans, children?” Mary asked when she joined them, taking care to sound cheerful. They all started talking at once. “Patience,” she cautioned. “One at a time. Gwen, you first. Was it everything you had hoped for?”

  “Oh, yes… and no. The picnic was delightful and the cathedral was very pretty.”

  “That all sounds promising. Was it the company that let you down then?”

  The girl nodded. “They are fine ladies and gentlemen, to be sure, but they did not have much of anything interesting to say for themselves. And they could not be bothered to talk to me at all.”

  “Ah, yes, people will often disappoint us, especially if our expectations are too high. I daresay that was the problem here. You expected society folk to be special, and they turned out to be only ordinary people with airs and fine clothes. And Michael, did you have an adventure today?”

  “It was a very dull ride there, for Papa would not let me sit on the box. He said I could on the way home if I behaved. So I tried my best, even though there were so many places to explore that it was difficult for me to be good.”

  “And did you succeed? Were you allowed to ride home on the box?”

  “Yes! Papa said I behaved well enough so that I could. There were no highwaymen after all, but I did see a fox and a barn on fire.”

  “A barn on fire? Oh, my!”

  “Well, it was only some smoke in the distance, but I thought it must be a barn on fire.”

  “Aha. So you had an adventure after all. What about you, Grace? Tell me about your day. Was it as fearful as you supposed it would be?”

  “No, Miss. It was just as you said. We rode in the carriage with Papa, and nobody required me to do or say very much at all.”

  “I am glad. Did anyone else ride with you?”

  “Yes, Miss Hawkins and Mrs. Candleford.”

  Mary looked enquiringly at Gwendolyn.

  “Miss June Hawkins is the lady we saw dancing with Papa, and Mrs. Candleford is her aunt, who came along as her chaperone.”

  “I see,” said Mary. “Miss Hawkins must be a very special friend if your father invited her to dance and also to ride in his carriage.”

  “I suppose so,” answered Gwen. “She did very often smile at Papa. And he must know her father, for they talked about him a great deal. He owns a bank in London.”

  That made perfect sense, thought Mary. Miss Hawkins was pretty, young, with desirable family connections and probably fortune too, and yet someone who would likely never dare challenge Mr. Farnsworth’s authority. “And did you children like Miss Hawkins?” she asked.

  Gwen shrugged and Michael had no opinion either.

  “I thought she was very silly,” said Grace. “She kept laughing when there was nothing the least bit funny.”

  “Well, I am sure there are worse faults a person could have,” said Mary. “The main thing is that if your father likes her, you three must make an effort to like her as well.”

  “Why must we?” asked Michael.

  “Because it is quite possible she will be spending a great deal of time here at Netherfield in the future, and you will all need to get on together.”

  ~~*~~

  Mary wished only to drop away into the gulf of oblivious sleep that night. Instead, she lay awake a long while against her will, held hostage by her muddled thoughts. She wondered how things would evolve at Longbourn. Would she ever be able to visit there comfortably again, or would she always feel like a jealous fool in the presence of her sister and brother-in-law? Would Mr. Farnsworth really marry this Miss Hawkins? If so, what kind of changes would that bring to Netherfield and how should she deal with them?

  Her logical mind insisted she should sort these questions out according to degree of urgency, project the likely outcomes, and plan reasonable strategies for dealing with the unpleasantness ahead. This self-assigned task soon proved impossible, however. Emotion insisted on playing a part, and it steadfastly refused to obey any of Mary’s sensible directions.

  Thus, her painful contemplations continued into the next day unresolved. Although the morning was fully given over to the children’s studies, the afternoon afforded Mary enough leisure to revisit her troubles again. She gave in to the children’s bidding that, on account of the exceptionally fine weather, they could just as easily have their Latin lesson out of doors, using the occasion to review the names of the various flora and fauna they met with there. Once finished, she freed them for taking what kind of exercise they should prefer. Michael made straight for his favorite climbing tree, and the girls organized a game of shuttlecock between them, leaving Mary little to do but keep watch, and no one to talk to other than herself as she strolled about.

  “Tristan is gone,” her practical side declared, “and you had better get used to the idea at once.”

  Emotion argued back.
“Let me be. Have you no sympathy? I have suffered a great tragedy, and I must be allowed to grieve my loss.”

  “Bah! How can you lose something you never possessed? Surely you knew all along it was impossible.”

  “No! I did think he might could love me… at least at the start.”

  “The evidence to the contrary has been mounting ever since you received Kitty’s letter from Pemberley. She tried to warn you; you refused to listen. If you are miserable over Mr. Tristan now, you have only yourself to blame.”

  Mary waited for the answering argument, and yet her emotions were strangely silent. She did not feel nearly as miserable over Tristan as she had expected – foolish, embarrassed, mightily disappointed, but not desperately miserable. Perhaps reason was right, that at some deeper level she had known ever since Kitty’s letter that he was lost to her, and perhaps she had begun letting go of that hope even then.

  A cursory check of the children confirmed all was well – the girls still at their game and Michael now halfway up his tree.

  No, when she analyzed her current unhappiness, it seemed to relate as much to the loss of her sister as the loss of Mr. Tristan Collins. By her marriage, Kitty had, in a manner of speaking, deserted her. Although their contrasting characters prevented any especial closeness, they had shared a sympathetic bond in being both left uncomfortably unmarried the past five years, long after the others had wed. Now, that single cord of commonality between them had been broken, and Mary felt set adrift.

  Other changes were in the works as well, as Mary was reminded when she gazed toward the back of the house. The noise of voices and laughter had drawn her attention to where Mr. Farnsworth and some of his guests had gathered in the shade of the expansive portico, there to drink lemonade and enjoy the warm August air.

  Miss Hawkins was beside him again. If she became the new mistress of Netherfield – and all signs pointed in that direction – what revolutionary alterations would it bring? Miss Farnsworth would soon be gone, her services no longer required. This Mary could not lament, unless the lady who replaced her as mistress of the house proved to be even more difficult to get along with. But what of Mr. Farnsworth himself? Mary supposed he would be very much occupied with his young wife. Would he then spend less time in London, or more? Would he neglect his children, or steal them away to form a cozy family life with his new wife? Would he then allow that lady to manage the children and no longer consult with their governess himself?

  For reasons she could not rightly comprehend, Mary’s heart weighed heavily within her chest as she considered this last point. Surely she should be glad to be spared those often worrisome confrontations with her employer. But the truth was that, however exasperating her dealings with Mr. Farnsworth might sometimes be, she should miss them if they ceased altogether. On an endless sea of routine and sameness, he was the brambly island that gave interest to the otherwise lifeless horizon. Although that island was protected by rocky shoals upon which one might easily shipwreck, Mary still had the sense that the reward awaiting the successful navigator could make the risk of nearer approach worth taking.

  As Mary’s thoughts had rambled farther afield, so had her feet. When she at last came to herself, it was with a shock for forgetting her duty. Next, a bolt of alarm struck home at a sudden but sure premonition of some imminent danger. She instantly swung round to locate the children. With relief, she saw the girls safe and sound. They had quit their game and were coming to join her. Then she remembered Michael… Michael, who when last she saw him was halfway up a tree!

  36

  Falling Down

  In her mind, she saw him falling – falling slowly, as if in a dream, his features contorted in terror. “Michael, be careful!” Mary shouted as she wheeled in his direction. But it was too late; he had already lost his grip. His small body came tumbling down from a height of fifteen feet, brutally striking two lower branches and then falling lifelessly to the ground with a muffled thud.

  For a moment, Mary could do nothing but stare in horror. Her brain rejected what she saw, her feet refused to move, and her voice caught in her throat. Then, as if someone had pushed her from behind, she lurched forward, running toward the boy’s crumpled form.

  Michael lay still as a corpse, and Mary felt the press of what seemed like bands of iron tightening round her chest. She dropped to her knees beside the boy, and for a long, horrifying minute feared there was no breath left in his body. Taking up his limp hand, she rubbed it and murmured his name again and again, all the while searching for some proof that life persisted.

  “He is dead!” cried Gwendolyn as she and her sister arrived on the scene. “Our brother is dead!”

  “No!” Mary assured her. “He still breathes, but we must get help for him at once. Now listen to me, Gwen. Hurry to the stables and send someone for the surgeon immediately. Can you do that?” Mary directed a steadying look at the girl, who then nodded and dashed off. “Grace, you had better go get your father.”

  The last instruction was entirely unnecessary, however, for Mr. Farnsworth was already halfway across the lawn, his attention having been drawn by the commotion. “Good God! What has happened?” he demanded as he flew to the spot. The big man knelt and at once caught his little son up in his arms.

  “He fell,” said Mary, knowing the words to be both needless and woefully inadequate to describe the catastrophe. “I am so very sorry, Mr. Farnsworth.”

  “What am I to do now? Is there no one to help me?” Mr. Farnsworth cried out as if all his own strength were gone.

  The look of anguish on his face was more than Mary could bear. “I have sent for the surgeon. He will know what to do. In the meantime, let us take Michael into the house, perhaps to one of the small parlors on the main floor.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, of course. I must get him inside.”

  “Very gently now,” Mary added in a soothing tone as Mr. Farnsworth got to his feet with his son cradled against his body.

  Carefully, they made their way back toward the house, Mary at Mr. Farnsworth’s side with one hand at his back, ushering him forward, and the other resting gently on Michael’s head. Miss Farnsworth and some of the houseguests converged on them to lend their help or hysteria, according to their natural abilities, and Mary soon found herself crowded out by the encircling throng. Mr. Farnsworth paid no attention to anyone. He continued on as if in a daze, his countenance ashen and drawn.

  Left behind and thus prevented from ministering to Michael, Mary turned her efforts to his sisters. Grace, who had trailed after, softly sobbing, Mary gathered into a tight embrace at once. Gwendolyn presently came hurrying back from the direction of the stables.

  “Has someone already gone for the surgeon?” Mary asked her.

  “Yes, William went at once. When I told him what had happened, he did not even take time to saddle a horse – just put a bridle on Jasper, flung himself on his back, and galloped off for town. Will Michael be all right, Miss?”

  “We must pray that he is. We must all pray very diligently.”

  It was with much perturbation of spirit that Mary returned to the nursery. She did her best to console the girls, and yet her thoughts were elsewhere, in a different part of the house with Michael and his father. If only she had paid more attention, they might not be suffering now! If only she had been more devoted to her duty instead of worrying about her own trivial problems, that dear boy might still be well and happy. Oh, what she would give to see him scampering up the stairs that moment, to hear his mischievous laughter echoing in the corridor! Would that sweet music ever come to her ears again?

  From the window, Mary observed the surgeon’s arrival barely twenty minutes after the accident. Then later, when she judged he would have had time to render some kind of opinion in the case, she left Gwendolyn and Grace, quietly settled with their books, and ventured down the back stairs to see what could be learnt by discreet enquiry.

  Mary emerged noiselessly into the service passageway on the main
level and crept toward the entry hall, hoping to meet with an opportunity for news there. Although she would not have dreamt of imposing on Mr. Farnsworth at such a time, she thought she might find something out from his sister or one of the servants. Instead, she overheard a conversation that stopped her in her tracks, one going forward between two ladies – Miss Hawkins and an older woman, soon discovered to be her aunt, Mrs. Candleford. Although they were only a few feet away from Mary, with their backs to her, they had obviously not detected her presence just behind the protruding wall.

  “The outlook seems very grim,” said Miss Hawkins in low tones. “The surgeon thinks that even if the child lives, he will likely never be quite right again.”

  “In what way?” asked Mrs. Candleford, leaning a little closer.

  “No one can say when the brain has been affected. He could be weak in the head, unable to walk, or possibly without sense or feeling altogether.”

  “The boy is his father’s heir too. If he were to die…”

  “Hush, Aunt! We must trust it will not come to that!”

  “Do not pretend to be so shocked, my dear. When something like this occurs, the mind leaps ahead to the obvious conclusion unbidden. What is a tragedy for one person often becomes an opportunity for another.”

  “I daresay you are right, and yet it is far too soon to be making plans of that sort. I am not Mrs. Farnsworth yet, you know.”

  “Soon you will be, however, and perhaps now your son… Well, you understand me.”

  “Yes, Auntie, I take your meaning, but I shall not spend my time spinning a future from what may never be. For now, I must be content with what is within my control. And you can be sure that when I am lady of this house, there will be many changes made. The first order of business will be to find a proper boarding school for the two daughters. I will not have them always underfoot.”

  “Ah, and what of the governess? Your future husband may be well satisfied with the current arrangement.”