B00BKPAH8O EBOK

by Winslow, Shannon

  “He may have been in the past, but everything is altered now. After all, this accident is entirely that incompetent governess’s fault. If Mr. Farnsworth cannot see it for himself, than I will use my influence to make sure he comes to that conclusion in the end. Once the governess is gone, it is only a small step to the idea of boarding school for the girls, and for the boy as well, of course… if he lives.”

  “I see what you mean, my dear June. You shall make quick work of it too. I would wager that before long you shall be leading the old codger about by the nose and have him thanking you for it into the bargain.”

  Miss Hawkins laughed behind her gloved hand. “Aunt, you really mustn’t say such things. You shall make me sound quite heartless, or calculating at the very least.”

  “Nothing of the sort, my dear! It is simply the natural order of things. A man likes to think he is having his own way, but any woman worth her salt will learn to master him without him even being aware of it. So it was with your uncle, may God rest his soul, and your Mr. Farnsworth will be no different. I assure you he will be happier in the end being told what to do, as long as you let it seem that it was all his own idea.”

  Mary slipped back down the corridor. She had got what she came for… and far more. Her own future at Netherfield looked bleak, and yet it was for little Michael that her heart bled – Michael and his poor father. A grim outlook… never right again, even if he lives, which he quite possibly would not, according to what she had overheard.

  The heavy bands about Mary’s chest constricted a few degrees tighter so that she found it nearly impossible to breathe as she slowly climbed the stairs. She deserved to lose her position even if Michael recovered. If, God forbid, he did not, she deserved much worse.

  37

  Awaiting Word

  An expectant hush had descended on the whole house immediately after Michael’s accident, and it deepened into a deathly stillness the following day after most of the guests, by ones and twos, departed Netherfield. The party, which had been intended to last a full week, clearly could not continue without its host, who now had no thought for anything beyond his son.

  Mr. Farnsworth did not send for his daughters or for Mary, which was not surprising. Mary would hardly have expected to hear from him unless it was to send her packing, and she had very little idea what she would have said to him if she could. How could she adequately apologize for what had happened? Nothing she might say could possibly comfort a man in the depths of despair over his dying son. Still, that is what she longed to be able to do – to lend some effectual aid or comfort, to ease Mr. Farnsworth’s pain, and to tell him how very, very sorry she was.

  It seemed the only service she could render him was to look after his daughters better than she had his son, to keep them safe and console them in their distress. Even as she did so, however, she reminded herself that she must soon be prepared to give them up – give all of them up. That knowledge drove the knife a little deeper.

  She remained closeted with Grace and Gwen all day, their single source of news coming from the servants whose duties brought them to the nursery. The only information they could convey, however, was that the surgeon had come and gone twice that day. Finally, Mary determined to risk another foray downstairs, this time making the head housekeeper her object. Mrs. Brand’s responsibilities gave her access to every part of the estate, and not much escaped that lady’s notice. If anybody beyond the family would know what was happening with Michael, it would be Mrs. Brand.

  Mary found her in her workroom and closed the door behind her.

  Mrs. Brand came round from behind her table and held her hands out, saying, “Oh, my dear girl, what you must be suffering!”

  “Say nothing of that,” answered Mary, taking both Mrs. Brand’s proffered hands for a moment. “It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it. What grieves me is that others are suffering for my sins.”

  “Now, now, Miss, you mustn’t take on so. ‘Tis a hard blow and no denying. I do not see as how you could have prevented it, though. Boys will climb trees and sometimes they fall is all.”

  “You are too kind, Mrs. Brand, but I am prepared to take the blame. My only worry now is for the boy. How does he do? What have you heard? I must know, although I dread it at the same time.”

  “Sit down, my dear, and take some tea with me. It will do us both good.” The housekeeper directed Mary to a straight-backed chair and poured them each a cup. “I will tell you what little I know, which is this. The poor boy is alive but still out of his senses. The surgeon do say it could go either way. He may yet recover with most of his faculties intact, or… or he may not. There simply be no way of knowing yet.”

  “Surely there must be something the doctor can do for him, something that should be attempted. We cannot sit idly by, waiting for Michael to die!”

  “Depend on it, Miss Bennet. Everything that can be done for the lad has been done. The master will have seen to that. The rest is in the Lord’s hands, I reckon, so there’s no use making yourself ill by fretting.”

  They sat quietly together a few minutes, Mary pondering what she had learnt thus far before addressing her other pressing question. “Mrs. Brand,” she began presently. “Tell me about Mr. Farnsworth. How is he bearing up?”

  Mrs. Brand frowned and shook her head. “I must say the master looks very bad to me, Miss. In one of the blackest moods I ever did see, and I have been with him nigh on fifteen years now. He refuses to leave the parlor where they have Michael laid out, not for food nor rest, and I hardly know as to which he will wear out first – himself or the patch of carpet where he paces up and down.”

  Mary stayed another ten minutes out of sheer politeness, but she was not fit company for anyone. Although she had entertained no very high hopes that it could be otherwise, the housekeeper’s report had confirmed Mary’s fears. Michael and his father were suffering most cruelly, and there was nothing she or anybody else could do about it.

  It was with a heavy heart that Mary began ascending the stairs again, paying a self-imposed penance with each step upward by listening to the accuser’s measured words, beating in time to her footfalls. “How… could… you… have… been… so… careless?” he whispered in her ear as she climbed. Mary submitted to the punishment as just and right. “Look… what… your… incompetence… has… wrought. Have… you… not… done… enough… harm?” She was completely in the prosecutor’s power now, and he drove her on with another harsh word for every stair. “Leave… this… place… at… once. No… one… wants… you… here. Not… after… what… you… have… done.”

  When Mary at last came out of the stairs into the passageway, she looked about herself in confusion. Something was not right. The corridor was too narrow and the ceiling too low. Things were familiar, and yet not quite as they should be. Then she realized her mistake; in her distracted state of mind, she had come up one floor too far and emerged in the servants’ quarters – the male servants’ quarters. Quickly spinning round to return the way she had come, she ran straight into Clinton.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” he said in a taunting voice.

  “Excuse me,” said Mary, moving to slip by him.

  He blocked her way with his long arm. “Goin’ so soon, Miss Bennet? Why, I won’t hear of it.”

  “I am sorry to have bothered you, Clinton. I came this way by mistake. Now please let me pass.”

  “No need to pretend with me, you know. I shouldn’t tell a soul you come to visit ole Clinton.” With his left hand already resting on the wall in front of Mary, he then brought the right up behind to block any retreat. “You are in enough trouble as it is, from what I hear.”

  She was effectively trapped against the wall with the large man looming over her.

  “No need to be shy,” he continued. “Just give us a little kiss.” Suddenly forcing his body against Mary, Clinton at the same time dropped his mouth over hers.

  Mary struggled against him, but she was no match for
his superior strength. And she had no air in her lungs with which to scream for help; his weight had pressed it from her.

  “’Tain’t no use fighting, Mary,” he grunted when he finally finished with what he had termed a kiss.

  Her mouth momentarily free, Mary gulped for air and tried to scream. Nothing more than a plaintive squeak emerged.

  “I shall have you now, and nothin’ you can do about it.” Clinton covered her mouth with his hand and began dragging her through the nearest doorway.

  “What’s this then?” boomed out a male voice from the far end of the corridor.

  Clinton’s grasp faltered and Mary broke free. She fled without a backward glance and flew down the stairs, her heart pounding in her ears. On she ran, not daring to slacken her pace until she was secure in her own bedchamber with the door barricaded. Adding her own weight to the heavy chair she had used, Mary fought to catch her breath as her mind raced for what to do next.

  Was she safe now or would Clinton risk coming after her again? Would his actions be reported, whereupon Clinton would rightfully be turned from the house? Or had it appeared to the witness that she was just as much to blame? She could inform on the unsavory incident herself. But to whom could she go, especially with the household still reeling from the shock of Michael’s accident? No. No one could be expected to worry themselves about the governess’s complaint at such a time, or to take seriously her wild tale of a footman’s peccadillo.

  There was only one thing to do, much as it pained Mary to admit it.

  38

  Farewell

  Although Mary knew she might have to leave Netherfield eventually, she had not expected the necessity to arise so abruptly or by such means. In truth, she had hoped it would never come at all. Yet now her immediate departure was imperative. She could not stay another day in the same house as her assailant, and she would not under any circumstances appeal to the only person who could have saved her. Mr. Farnsworth – should he even be inclined to assist her – had trouble and heartache enough of his own.

  Unconsciously, Mary adopted his habit of pacing, taking six strides toward the window of her room and then six back, over and over again as she considered what to do next. She was far too agitated to sit still with so much hanging in the balance and no plan for how to proceed.

  Where should she go, and by what means? She would be welcome to Longbourn, but that would not serve. Kitty and Tristan were there, Mary remembered with a fresh flush of embarrassment. Besides, it was too near to Netherfield. What she wanted was to leave her old life behind completely, to get away and make a fresh start. It must be a clean and decisive break too, if she were to bear it. No parting scenes or emotional good byes. She wished to be long gone before anyone in the house knew of it, and off to someplace safe, where she would not constantly be seeing and hearing of those now forever lost to her. It must be Pemberley, she concluded. There she would take her sanctuary; there she would in some manner come to terms with what had happened.

  With her destination decided, Mary soon had the rest satisfactorily worked out in her mind. Leaving Netherfield would be the simplest business in the world to manage… and at the same time, the hardest thing she had ever done.

  Whether it was the thought of departure or the accumulated trauma of the last few days, Mary could not be certain. But when she sat down to her next task, the tears finally began to flow – slowly at first and then with a vengeance. She had no more than headed her letter with the words “Dear Mr. Farnsworth” when the dam that had held them in check so long suddenly could not contain another drop, and the flood burst forth.

  She wept for the broken man downstairs keeping vigil by the half-dead body of his son. She wept for poor Michael, once so full of high spirits and mischief, and for the wretched mischance that had been his undoing. She wept for the girls, who were now having the carefully reestablished order in their lives overthrown again. And she wept for herself as well, for her loss… and for how low she had sunk, this very act being proof of the complete collapse of her former strongholds. Of all the emotions she had so fastidiously avoided in years past, self-pity was the most abhorrent and the last to overtake her.

  She had striven against it in her youth, when she had first comprehended her insurmountable disadvantages by comparison with her sisters – “hopelessly ill-favored in person and temperament,” as her mother and others had branded her. Self-pity had not conquered her then. On the contrary, she had made such cruel characterizations a rallying cry for building up her strengths, her accomplishments, and her defenses against further attack. Now, however, she could no longer secretly harbor any claim to superiority of character or even salvage her self-respect. All was at an end; all was lost.

  It was no good attempting to write when she could no longer see through the rivers that ran before her eyes, when sobs racked her body so that her hand could no longer steady the pen. Mary abandoned the letter and gave herself over to her sorrows completely, curling up on her bed and crying into her pillow until she fell asleep, exhausted.

  It was some time later when a hand shook her shoulder. “Miss Bennet,” someone said softly, rousing her. “Are you well?”

  Mary recognized the voice as belonging to Gwendolyn, and she opened her eyes to find Grace also alongside her bed. “What?” she asked, still not fully awake.

  “Are you well, Miss?” Gwen repeated. “We wondered when you did not return, and so we came to find you. It is time for our supper.”

  Mary sat up and rubbed her face with both hands to clear the cobwebs. “Oh, yes, girls. I was only a little tired, but I had not meant to fall asleep. Give me a moment to tidy myself, and I will be along directly.”

  Again, just as with the recent situation at Longbourn, Mary was required to exert herself mightily in hiding how much her feelings were oppressed by what had occurred… and for what lay ahead. Sitting down to supper with the Farnsworth girls, it was impossible to forget that this would be their last meal together, or to ignore the empty chair where Michael should have been.

  She looked about the pleasant room where she had spent a large share of the last four years and attempted to commit the details to memory – the cheerful wallpaper, the toys and games they had employed at play, the furniture perfectly proportioned to fit the children who used it. Then Mary’s eyes greedily took in the faces beside her one last time – first Grace on her right and then Gwendolyn on her left, both now become so dear to her.

  Mary set her fork down and got to her feet, saying, “I am sorry, girls. I’m afraid I am not well after all. I think I shall return to my bed and make an early night of it.”

  Gwen and Grace both rose from the table to say their good nights.

  Instead of the light embrace and perfunctory kiss they customarily exchanged with their governess, however, Mary held them both tightly to herself for a long while. “I want you to know how very proud you have made me,” she told them. “You are both becoming fine young ladies, and I know I can depend on you to carry on as such… whatever happens.”

  “Why are you crying, Miss?” asked Grace, looking up into Mary’s eyes, where the tears had begun to pool once more.

  “She is thinking of Michael,” Gwen answered for her.

  “Yes,” confirmed Mary, releasing the girls and crouching down to Grace’s level. “Life is full of unexpected turns, and we must do the best we can when we meet with one. Whatever happens, you must be strong for each other and for your father. Will you remember that for me?” The girls nodded, and then Mary left them to hurry back to her own room.

  Once there, she steadied herself and set to work packing together the few belongings she intended to take with her. She would have to travel light and hope to retrieve the rest of her things at some later date. For now, a couple of gowns, her personal items, and perhaps two or three of her most precious books would have to do. And money: she could not travel without money. Fortunately, she had been frugal, setting much of her salary aside each month. Now that nest egg
would buy her freedom, giving her the means to make her escape.

  When she had finished all her other preparations and could think of no way to avoid it, Mary returned to the letter which she had barely begun two hours before. With a heavy sigh, she sat down to commence the task again, taking care over every word.

  Dear Mr. Farnsworth,

  By the time you read this, I will have gone from Netherfield forever. Due to what has happened in the last two days (of which you know only part), I must resign my position as governess effective immediately, thereby saving you the trouble of telling me my services are no longer required.

  There are no words adequate to express my sorrow over what has occurred, for which I hold myself chiefly responsible. I can only promise my continued prayers for Michael’s recovery and offer my profound apologies to you, sir, that I failed in my duty to protect him from harm. I also, by my immediate departure, hope to spare you the inconvenience of ever setting eyes on me again, a circumstance which you would most understandably wish to avoid. Toward that end, I mean to accept a position that I have been offered with a reputable family in London, and I will take up residence there immediately.

  I do ask your attention one minute more, however, for I must now speak out on behalf of your daughters’ welfare. When I am gone, the thought may occur that, instead of hiring a new governess, you should consider boarding school for the girls. I implore you to reject the idea, should it ever be suggested. Gwendolyn and Grace have lost their mother, and now I must leave them too. Do not take their home and their father from them as well, I beg you.

  You will say that I have already forfeited any right to an interest in your family’s affairs, and yet I find that the attachment of four years’ duration is not so easily broken. With my very sincere regard and regrets,

  Miss Mary Bennet