Mary reread the finished letter. It seemed so woefully inadequate, and yet what more could she have said that would not be offensive? Should she have told him that she had come to care for his children as if they were her own? Should she have admitted that she would miss him as well, that leaving Netherfield would be no less excruciating than cutting off her right arm? No, it would be selfish, unseemly, and rude to demand his sympathy by citing her own pain at such a time. She should not even think of it. And as for the one falsehood she had told, it seemed a necessary deviation, her only protection against unwanted discovery.
Mary abruptly folded and sealed the letter. Then there was nothing more to do but wait.
39
Escape
Mary waited for the familiar sounds and stirrings of the house to still for the night, and then she waited one hour longer. Only then did she deem it safe to embark upon her night errand. She believed she could leave the house in the morning without arousing any undue suspicion, but not if she were carrying a bag packed for traveling. So the bag, she had determined, would have to leave the house beforehand, under cover of darkness.
Down the corridor and stairs Mary crept with it, wincing at every creaking floorboard and every squeaking hinge. There was a tolerable moon to light her way once she attained the garden. From there she stole into the wood beyond the stables and looked for an appropriate hiding spot – someplace secure from the eyes of passersby yet easily accessible to herself. She ignored the haunting call of the owl above and the various rustlings in the brush. She could not afford to be squeamish at this juncture; everything depended on her carrying her mission through without faltering.
After prowling about in the shadowy undergrowth near the lane some minutes, Mary came upon the very thing: the stump of a large, long-fallen tree, now made nurse to a tangle of new growth. It would, she reasoned, provide adequate cover, and the raised situation would make retrieving her bag from horseback far more convenient. She burrowed the article in amongst the concealing thicket atop the stump, took careful notice of the exact location, and then hurried back toward the house.
She paused on the lawn to look at Netherfield House once more. In the morning, there would be no time to stop and bid farewell to what had been her home for over four years, and Jane and Mr. Bingley’s before that. This moonlight aspect would have to serve. The pale stone seemed to glow slightly, even in the dimness, but all the windows were black, all save one. A light burned in the room where Michael lay with his young soul suspended halfway between life and death. This was as she would have expected, for Mary knew a continuous vigil was kept for him there. Never was he left unattended by night or by day.
Mary instinctively drew back into the shrubbery when a figure – unmistakably a man – appeared at the window. Then, looking once more, she recognized him. The silhouetted form belonged to the master of the house. Mr. Farnsworth himself was keeping watch over his son that night. Mary felt her throat tightening and the sting of tears in her eyes. She had not thought to see him ever again, and now this imperfect portrait would be her parting view – imperfect as to the illumination of his person, but perhaps the most accurate as to the character of the man. For all his faults and vagaries, she would ultimately remember Mr. Farnsworth as a man of uprightness and proper feeling.
She was content to remain in that attitude as long as he was within view, daring not to stir herself whilst there was any chance he might see her. Having already accomplished her assignment, she was in no hurry. It seemed they both had the long hours of the night to pass in waiting and expectancy. For Mary, the morning would bring departure and moving on; for Mr. Farnsworth, she prayed God it would bring some relief of anxiety in the form of Michael’s improvement.
~~*~~
Mary had little sleep that night – only so much as she could collect between two o’clock and half past the hour of six, fully dressed and sitting in an armchair. She had returned to her room without incident in the middle of the night, and now meant to be off as soon as possible. It was several miles to the nearest coaching inn, and she wished to arrive in good time, with the hope of securing a seat on the first respectable vehicle traveling north.
Although she had intended to tell no one she was going, she found she must make one exception. Mrs. Brand was as sound and trustworthy a person as Mary had ever come across, and she knew her secret would be safe with her. Mrs. Brand also kept early hours, so at seven Mary made her way down to the housekeeper’s workroom.
“Mrs. Brand,” Mary said, knocking and opening the door at the same time. “May I speak to you?”
Mrs. Brand looked up in surprise. “Mercy, child, but you gave me a start! What brings you to see me so early in the morning? Nothing amiss, I pray.”
“No, nothing seriously amiss. I have come to bid you good bye; that is all.”
“Good bye, you say. What is it you are about, Miss? You do not mean to leave Netherfield, do you?”
“Yes, almost this moment, Mrs. Brand, and you must not try to dissuade me. I am determined to go directly. I have said nothing about it to anybody. It would only be giving trouble needlessly. But I am certain that my leaving is the right and necessary thing after all that has happened.”
“Oh, no, you must not go away because you blame yourself for the business with Michael. No one else will, and besides, the young ladies need you.”
“My good woman, it is enough for you to know that I have very sound reasons for going. And now I must ask your assistance on three important points.”
“I still say as there can be no occasion for your leaving, Missy, but I will do for you whatever I can.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brand. First, I ask that you keep my departure quiet as long as possible, only speaking of it when I am missed.” Mary then handed her the letter she had written. “Give this to Mr. Farnsworth whenever you think best.” The housekeeper nodded, and Mary went on. “Secondly, would you see to it that the rest of my belongings are transported to Longbourn whenever it is convenient?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Very good. The other thing I require of you – and this must be guarded in the strictest confidence – is that you write to me periodically to keep me informed of Master Michael’s condition. I shall always regret the part I played in his terrible fall, but I will rest somewhat easier when I know he is out of danger. God forbid there will be any other outcome in the case, although I must be told that as well, should it occur. Will you undertake to do this for me?”
“Yes, that I will, Miss. Where am I to send the letters? Where are you bound?”
“Pemberley. Direct your letters to the great house at Pemberley, in Derbyshire.”
After engaging for these arrangements, Mrs. Brand made one final try at overthrowing the need for them, offering such arguments as seemed to her most likely to persuade Mary against her planned course of action. It was all for naught, however, and Mary, suspecting the woman quite capable of conjuring up tears to carry her point, quickly took leave.
Only one obstacle remained between herself and a fair escape, and it again required a degree of stealth and subterfuge beyond what Mary ordinarily had any cause to employ. But her desperation to be away gave her boldness. Taking no notice of the wild beating of her own heart, she strolled across the dew-covered lawn as if it were the most commonplace thing in the world for her to be taking a turn in the garden at that hour. From there, unchallenged, she made her way down the incline and past the grove to the entrance of the stables. It was early, yet she knew there would be somebody about to help her.
Approaching the doorway, Mary first met with the earthy scents of hay and horses. “Hello,” she called out. There was the muffled sound of approaching footsteps. “Ah, William, good. Please saddle Arielle for me,” she said with as much calm assurance as she could muster.
The groom regarded her quizzically and did not at once obey.
“Arielle, please.” she repeated. “I am in a bit of a hurry too, so could you…” Mary moti
oned him on his way.
He stood his ground. “This is quite irregular, Miss. What can be taking you out at this hour, if you do not mind my asking?”
“I’m afraid I rather do mind, William. You have instructions from Mr. Farnsworth to make Arielle available to me whenever I wish. Is that not correct?”
“It is, Miss. But the master also say as I am not to allow you to go off on your own. Will you be needing me to accompany you wherever you are bound?”
“That will not necessary. My cousin Mr. Collins – you saw him the other day, remember? He is meeting me for another ride. I expect him any minute. So, if you would be so good as to ready my horse?”
William gave her one more measured look, and then slowly turned to do as he had been bidden, coming back ten minutes later with Arielle and leading her outside. He looked about and seeing no Mr. Collins, he said, “Has your party been detained?”
“Perhaps he has,” answered Mary. “I believe I hear him coming now, though. Help me into the saddle.” After he had done so, Mary added, “Ah, yes. I see my cousin approaching. I shall just ride out to meet him. Thank you, William.”
“Wait, Miss…” William protested.
Mary did not remain to hear more. She pulled Arielle’s head round and urged the mare down the lane at a canter, soon reaching the bend and passing out of sight of the stables. Then it was the work of only a minute to locate and retrieve her bag. Even if William should raise an alarm over her unorthodox behaviour, which Mary considered unlikely, she would be long gone before a pursuit could be mounted. And why would anybody follow her? She was not a thief who must be run to ground. Other than one of Mr. Farnsworth’s many horses, which would promptly be returned to him, Mary took nothing with her that would be missed. Neither did she leave any tangible remnant of herself behind to be long remembered.
40
Miles to Go
Her plan had worked to perfection. She had come away unnoticed and unmissed. She had left Arielle at the inn, paying for someone to see the mare home to her owner. She had then procured a seat on a northbound post chaise that same afternoon. And just before departing, she had sent a brief note of explanation off to her mother.
Now the jostling coach carried her steadily towards her destination and away from the past. Every few minutes another mile was added to the measure of all that divided her from her former life – from Netherfield and its family, from her own relations at Longbourn, and from what she had thought would be her life’s work – raising up and educating the Farnsworth children.
Perhaps she should have been relieved to be safely away, and one part of her was. Perhaps she should also have been excited by the adventure she was in the midst of and the new challenge that lay ahead. Alas, she could not be. Although Pemberley exceeded Netherfield Park in every way, and the children there were her own flesh and blood, it would not feel like home to her. In due course, the painful memories would surely subside and new affections might grow to supplant the old attachments. That could take years, however, and how was she to get on in the meantime?
Mary surreptitiously surveyed her fellow passengers – a well-looking young man that she took to be some sort of tradesman, and two rather dowdy women in their middle years, probably sisters from the way they carried on together. None of them seemed to have a care in the world. They could be off on holiday for all the calm smiles of the one and the merry chatter of the other two.
Their good spirits rankled Mary unreasonably, and she turned away from the sight to gaze out the window instead. There, however, she found the broad summer sky likewise inconveniently cheerful. Only the dappled gray clouds skirting the western horizon gave her hope of something more appropriately melancholy in the offing.
After her collapse at Netherfield, she had given herself tacit permission to dwell a while longer in the darkness of her anguish, to thoroughly wallow in the mire of her misery for a limited period. Self-control must be reestablished by the time she reached Pemberley. Until then, however, she was free to feel the full extent of her pain, and to not add the need for exertion to the awful weight of it. When tears came, she let them flow. What did she care for the curious stares of her temporary companions? She would never see them again, and they could be nothing to her.
Instead of vexing her, the long, inconvenient journey was in fact her ally. It gave her time – time to grieve and then recover in part. When the road was rough and dirty, it merely coincided with her uncomfortable frame of mind. And although the accommodations at the inns where she stayed were decidedly below standard, she uttered no complaint. If she could not remain in the great house where she had left her heart, what did it matter where she laid her head?
~~*~~
Mary was three nights on the road. Then on the forth day, she hired a trap and driver to take her the final leg of her travels, using those last hours to compose herself and plan what explanation she would give to her sister for her unheralded appearance at Pemberley. At half past three in the afternoon, she arrived and was admitted by the butler, who directed her to wait in the drawing room whilst he alerted his mistress.
“Mary, how wonderful!” Elizabeth cried coming to her a few minutes later. “I could not believe it when Henderson told me you were here.” After embracing Mary, Elizabeth held her at arm’s length again and scrutinized her face. “Oh, my dear, you look very ill. What has happened?”
“Be not alarmed. All is well at Longbourn,” said Mary, reading her sister’s thoughts. “And I am tolerably well also. I have decided to leave my post at Netherfield; that is all.”
Elizabeth gasped a little at this and drew Mary to a sofa, where they both sat down. “Now tell me what this is all about. I thought you were content at Netherfield. You have said so yourself on more than one occasion.”
“Yes, I was content, but the situation is irreversibly altered now, making it impossible for me to stay.” Mary continued by giving her rehearsed account of Michael’s fall and Clinton’s advances, only just managing to do so without shedding tears.
“My dear, you take far too much responsibility upon yourself,” responded Elizabeth when Mary had done. “No sensible person will hold you responsible for the boy’s fall, and you are certainly not to blame for the other business! You might yet set things right. Would not Mr. Farnsworth give you a fair hearing, once his son is on the road to recovery?”
Mary’s throat tightened and she struggled for self-command. “God grant that Michael will pull through this, but as for Mr. Farnsworth… Well, he is a good man, an honorable man, I believe, and yet one of demanding standards and a somewhat resentful temper. I am by no means assured of his forgiveness, even if the boy makes a full recovery. Besides, Mr. Farnsworth is contemplating a new marriage, and his intended bride has no use for governesses. No, there is no future for me at Netherfield. I must start afresh elsewhere. I rather hoped I might find a place here at Pemberley, Elizabeth. If you and Mr. Darcy will have me, I thought I might make myself useful with the children.”
“Oh, my goodness, Bennet would love it! He has not stopped talking of his Aunt Mary since you were here the last time, reciting his poem and playing the little ditty you taught him on the piano-forte. And I can speak for my husband as well as myself; we would be delighted to have you staying. Still, there is no need to work for your keep. As you know, Kitty remained with us for weeks at a time without being the least bit useful!”
Elizabeth laughed, but her attempt to lighten the mood was lost on Mary. Kitty’s name only reminded her of another source of grief, one which she could not acknowledge or explain to Elizabeth. “Thank you,” said Mary. “If I stay, though, I must have some occupation. There is dignity and consolation in work.”
“Now you begin to sound like Charlotte, which is not a bad thing. I would be lost without her efficient help, and I daresay you will prove yourself just as indispensable to this household in time, Mary. You are most welcome here, and you may stay on your own terms for as long as you like.” They both rose and
embraced again. “And Mr. Darcy will tell you the same. I know it.”
Mary started as the man himself entered the room at that moment, saying, “Why, hello, Sister Mary. Very good to see you again so soon.” Then, turning to his wife, he asked, “What is it precisely you have foreseen that I shall tell your sister?”
She smiled up at him. “That she may stay with us as long as she likes, of course. Am I correct?”
“Entirely, my dear, as is usually the case.”
“There, did I not tell you, Mary. Of course you shall stay. It is all decided,” concluded Elizabeth brightly.
Mary thanked them profusely and then left to settle once more into the same bedchamber she had so recently inhabited.
When she had gone, Darcy turned to his wife. “I meant what I said, that you were entirely correct in supposing I should wish to welcome your sister here. But what is the occasion for her needing our help? What brings her to Pemberley, and to stay apparently?”
“She says she wants to make a fresh start, to be of service here with the children. She has resigned her post at Netherfield, upset by the Farnsworth boy’s taking a bad tumble from a tree, for which she believes she will be blamed, and by some funny business with an impertinent footman. Although I cannot help thinking there is more to the story than what she is telling, for she is clearly distraught, brokenhearted even. Did you not notice her drawn expression and sallow skin? These are things she could not hide. And at one moment, I would swear she was on the point of tears. If it were Lydia or Kitty, I would not be so concerned; rarely a day would pass without one of them falling victim to some crisis – real or imagined. But this is Mary we are speaking of – steady and stoic Mary, who never betrays a hint of emotion to anybody, not even when Papa died.”
“What is it that you suspect, then?”
“I hardly know. I have never seen her like this before. It strikes me that it cannot be the loss of her position alone that has reduced her to such a state.”
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