“Perhaps she places more store by her abilities as a governess than you or I can imagine. With no home or family of her own to occupy her, it does not seem unreasonable to me that she should be devastated by the loss of the employment that constituted her one source of pride and satisfaction.”
“With no home or family,” Elizabeth repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, there is something in what you say, my love. For in losing her position at Netherfield she has perhaps lost far more – her adopted home and family of four years are gone with it.”
41
Lessons and Letters
Mary had not fooled herself into thinking it would be easy to begin again, and it was not. The process might have been helped along if she could have kept busier, but the Darcy children were of less than ideal ages for that. Bennet, who turned six the first week she was at Pemberley, was a ready learner, yet even he could not be expected to sit for a full day of lessons. And very little of an educational nature could be done for his brothers, Edward being too contrary minded and James too young.
As a result, Mary was left with more vacant hours to fill than she believed wise. For when she could find no occupation for her hands, her mind worked on, canvassing the dangerous ground once more. It tortured her with regrets for past events at Netherfield, and taunted her with what might be going forward there at present – Michael’s unknown condition, how Mr. Farnsworth and the girls fared, if Miss Hawkins continued to make her influence felt. Most perilous of all, however, was the question of whether or not her own absence was regretted. Did anybody there lament the loss of her? Every time the idea occurred, Mary chastised herself for allowing such a vain thought to enter her head. She should not, must not, flatter herself by supposing Mr. Farnsworth or any of the others were missing her the way she continued to suffer over them.
Although Pemberley’s excellent library and the well-appointed music room provided some useful distraction from such unprofitable tendencies of mind, nothing seemed to keep them at bay for long. And when Mary applied to Elizabeth for the suggestion of some other useful occupation, her sister was sure to say, “For heaven’s sake, take your ease, Mary! You have worked hard for years, and you have surely earned a rest.”
It was kindly meant, as were the other efforts made for her comfort and diversion. But the kindness Mary appreciated most was the respect shown for her wish to keep her private business to herself. There was no officiousness. There were no importunate questions asked. Since the day of her first arriving, Elizabeth had not once pressed her for further explanations, and Mr. Darcy never alluded to the past. They both soon treated her as an established member of the household, and her presence at Pemberley as if they could not recall that it had ever been otherwise.
Charlotte Collins also proved herself a great friend in those early weeks. She, more than Elizabeth, could understand Mary’s need to keep busy, and, in her position as housekeeper, she was also more able to help. “I was lost when I had to leave Hunsford parsonage after Mr. Collins died,” she told Mary. “I had a great need to be doing something, and it was only after I came to Pemberley that I felt truly useful again.”
“Yes, exactly!” answered Mary. “Work is a great tonic.”
“I quite agree. Come to me when you are at loose ends, Mary. I will find an odd job for you. In a place this size, there is always something that needs doing.”
For this and other considerations shown her, Mary felt she could not have chosen a better place of refuge. Yet there was one unanticipated drawback to Pemberley, and that was the person of Mr. Darcy himself.
Mary had been struck some once or twice before by a certain similarity between her former employer and her current host – not so much in physical description as in various mannerisms and in the commanding presence they each seemed to innately possess. When either man entered a room, all eyes instinctively turned towards him in expectation. Other people unconsciously took from him their cue for what was important and how to behave.
In the past, this likeness had been nothing more than a point of casual interest and slight amusement. Now, however, it was an ever-present, ever-painful reminder. Mary could not see Mr. Darcy or hear him speak without Mr. Farnsworth abruptly being recalled to her mind. It was in the purposefulness of his stride, the tenor of his voice, the steady intensity of his look. If she had come to Pemberley to forget Netherfield, and more particularly its master, then she had come to the wrong place.
~~*~~
With equal parts of hope and dread, Mary watched the post for news from Mrs. Brand. Instead, the first letter from Hertfordshire was in her mother’s disorderly hand.
Dear Mary,
What on earth can you mean by going off like this, with only that short message to inform me of your plans at the last minute? I daresay your sister Elizabeth is very pleased for your company, but you might have given a little consideration to the rest of us. Kitty is beside herself with worry over you, and I cannot be entirely easy in the manner of your going – sneaking off like a thief in the night and traveling post, as we are given to suppose. And what are we to think of your insistence on secrecy? Have you committed a crime or are you on the run for your life?
You have left a fine mess behind you at Netherfield too. Opinions hereabouts are pretty much divided over whether you were dismissed from your position or voluntarily deserted your duty. There is not much honor in either case. And when I think of that poor boy, lying there, still out of his wits… Well, it seems a very hard thing that you should have abandoned the family at such a time.
My only consolation is that Kitty and your cousin seem to be in a fair way of falling in love with each other. I observe their progress daily, and I have the very sanguine expectation of something good developing there as soon as may be. My little comments about finding another place to live are always met with Mr. Collins saying, “I shall hear no more talk of moving out, my dear lady,” or some such thing. That can only be interpreted one way. You know that long before he had ever set one foot on the grounds, I predicted he would marry Kitty. Once they are settled together here at Longbourn as man and wife, I truly shall have nothing left to wish for!
Be of what use you can to your sister, Mary, and do have the courtesy to send us a more credible letter without delay. In it, perhaps you will be so good as to provide some explanation for your rash behaviour and give a more thorough account of your plans. I daresay you owe us that much.
Yours, etc.
These maternal solicitudes failed to provide much comfort for the one to whom they were addressed. Nevertheless, out of duty, Mary did write to her mother, although she well knew that the meager contents of her letter would not much gratify Mrs. Bennet’s curiosity, no more than Mrs. Bennet’s missive had answered all Mary’s questions about the situation at Netherfield. All she learned was that Michael was, at that point, still unconscious… unconscious, but alive.
Mrs. Brand’s first letter arrived a week later, bringing information in a more direct line, and yet with little additional satisfaction. Michael was much the same, with no symptoms better or worse than before. Her next, ten days following, was more encouraging, however. The patient now enjoyed brief intervals of sense and consciousness, and this had given rise to a cautious optimism amongst his doctors, and consequently the family as well. They had been told that a speedy cure must not be hoped, but everything was going on as well as the nature of the case admitted.
This news did more to strengthen Mary’s spirits and bolster her courage than anything else in all creation could have. It was an answered prayer, and should Michael fully recover, Mary felt she would be cast down no longer. If God would only restore the boy to his father, whole and hearty, she would promise not to grieve over any of the rest.
~~*~~
Two more months went by, and a third and then a fourth letter came from Mrs. Brand. The last one gave this welcome account of the culmination of the boy’s progress towards recovery:
“…I wish you could be here to see it
, Miss Mary. It is like an awful black cloud is finally lifting and the light flooding back into the house at last. The young master is now apt to talk a body’s arm off as not. And the best of it is that all fear for his spine seems at an end. Doctor says he should be up and walking before too much longer. I declare, when Michael wriggled his little toes for me, it was the prettiest sight I ever beheld. You can imagine, then, how the boy’s father must feel…”
Yes, Mary could imagine, just as if she were at Netherfield again – Michael’s cheerful energy reasserting itself; seeing the boy wiggle his ten pink toes; Mr. Farnsworth’s broad smile, liberated at last from long months of anxiety.
Tears quietly slid down Mary’s cheeks, and she was glad she did not have to hide them, having gained the seclusion of her own room before opening her prized letter. Although she, like Mrs. Brand, wished she could be at Netherfield to witness these happy sights, she remembered her promise, and her tears were tears of gratitude, not self-pity. With a new lightness of spirit she shared the good report on Michael with Elizabeth an hour later.
“Oh, that is excellent news, Mary!” said she in response. “You must be so relieved after having this worry pressing on your mind for so many weeks.”
“Naturally, but it is not primarily for myself that I rejoice. I no longer have a share in that family’s fortunes. It is for Mr. Farnsworth’s sake, and for his children, that I am most gratified.”
She would not repine, yet the concerns of Netherfield and its citizens remained strong in Mary’s heart and consciousness. This she could not help. Whenever Mary chanced to think of Longbourn, however, she noted that an extraordinary revolution in her feelings had occurred over the past three months. With the initial shock of Kitty and Tristan’s secret marriage long since worn away, nothing remained of her anger and surprisingly little of that disappointment which had seemed so all encompassing at the time. Other events had quickly overshadowed it and thrown it into a proper light. Their marriage was a settled thing, and she had learnt to admit it. Mary could not even bring herself to any longer wish the couple unhappy, as she had first done to her shame.
What unpleasant sensations lingered mostly stemmed from her own unbecoming behaviour in the case, and in an odd sort of wonderment that she had ever fancied herself so much in love with her cousin. Mr. Tristan was very agreeable; there was no denying it. On further reflection, however, he was far less well matched to herself than she had once supposed. He was not intellectual or musical; he did not appreciate poetry; and she had never seen proof that he possessed the capacity for much in the way of serious contemplations. What adventures they had shared were of the physical rather than the metaphysical variety, and one without the other was incomplete.
It now struck Mary that perhaps it was just as with the first Mr. Collins. Although Tristan was unquestionably favored with many more natural gifts than his elder brother, it might still have been as much the situation he offered as the man himself that she had been so taken with. She had once again clutched at the unexpected chance to become the wife of a respectable gentleman and, in so doing, being the one who redeemed Longbourn for her family. If it had been foolish for her to think of it, then Kitty must have a share of the blame, for she was the one who had first proposed the idea. It might never have occurred to Mary otherwise.
Even should this not be the full and honest truth of the matter, it was an explanation Mary could accept with grace, and one which she thought wise to actively cultivate. It seemed to her that folly could be recovered from much more readily than rejection and betrayal at the hands of one’s own relations. And, the more she considered the subject, it seemed by far the most logical explanation for what had occurred and the change in her feelings since. She now told herself it would be quite possible that she could meet Tristan and Kitty again without any serious mortification or resentment. It was a bold assertion soon to be tested.
42
Surprising News
Mary had sufficient warning of their coming, since the plan for again gathering a large family party to Pemberley for Christmas had been proposed more than two months before the day arrived. The Gardiners from London and the three from Longbourn were all to spend at least a fortnight, and the Bingleys would drive over from Heatheridge some once or twice for a few days at a time. This number would naturally be augmented on occasion by the Thorntons and other local friends.
Darcy and Elizabeth had been to visit all the Fitzwilliam clan in early October and had hoped to entice those they held dearest to return the visit at Christmas. However, owing to the joyously anticipated arrival of their second child before the year was out, Georgiana and the colonel were forced to decline.
Lydia, made newly unwell by the same cause but with a far less cheerful outlook, was also obliged to send regrets on behalf of herself and her expanding family.
“So, Denny has caught up with her at last,” said Elizabeth with a mischievous grin upon reading the letter that announced this news. She and Mary were alone in the breakfast room, finishing their meal. “I am glad for him. And at least Lydia has a doting mama-in-law to help her, so perhaps she will not be so cast down this time as she was the first.”
“Do you hope for more children yourself, Elizabeth?” asked Mary.
Elizabeth smiled wistfully. “I would not trade my three boys for anything in the world, but I do sometimes wish for a daughter as well.” After a pause, she continued. “Mary, would you mind it very much if I asked you something of a rather personal nature?”
Mary looked sideways at her sister. “It depends entirely on what exactly you wish to know. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.”
“Fair enough. And you must know that only sincere concern would prompt me to ask in the first place. It is just that I have often wondered if you are much grieved by the fact that you do not have a husband and children of your own? I know you find your work fulfilling, and you have always seemed so fiercely independent that I hoped you were not regretting it in the least. And of course, it may yet happen.”
Mary did not respond at first, being entirely occupied with cutting the crust off from her bread in a very precise manner. Then she said, “No, I am not much pained by the lack of something I have never possessed. I believe it is only the loss of something one has become very much attached to that has the power to break a person. The same would be true for you, I am sure. Although you may harbor some regret over not having a daughter, the loss of the three children and the husband you already adore – or any one of them – would be a thousand times worse. Do not you agree?”
Elizabeth shuddered. “Have mercy, Mary! Do not even speak of it! I cannot bear to think of such a calamity. I should never survive.”
“I disagree,” said Mary, with a distant look in her eyes. “You would suffer terribly, yes, yet you would go on living day by day because you had no other choice. People do it all the time.” She then remembered herself and gave her sister an apologetic smile. “But God forbid you should ever be faced with such a trial, Elizabeth.”
“Yes, pray God forbids it indeed! Now, may we please talk of something more cheerful?”
Although the conversation had subsequently taken an upsetting turn, Elizabeth was at least tolerably reassured by her sister’s answer to her original question. It seemed there was no need to worry for Mary on that head. Only later did Elizabeth realize that, far from being the disavowal of serious pain that she had initially taken it for, Mary’s statement could just as easily have been a veiled declaration of a profound grief.
~~*~~
If Mary regretted having had no opportunity for a husband and children of her own, as her sister had feared, the situation was soon unexpectedly altered.
Monsieur Hubert, who had at last been coaxed to Pemberley by Mr. Darcy’s persistence and generosity, had been astonished on his first visit there that November to find not one but two students awaiting him. “Ah, Miss Bennet! Quelle surprise!” he exclaimed upon his first seeing Mary. “You
cannot imagine how extremely delighted I am to find you here. You disappeared without a word, and no one at Netherfield could tell me where you had gone.”
“Yes, I am very sorry for having had no chance to inform you, Monsieur. The change came about rather abruptly,” Mary explained. “But now I hope we can go on just as before.”
And they had from that day. Monsieur Hubert came once a fortnight, just as Mary was accustomed to at Netherfield. Bennet always had the first lesson and Mary the second. As in the past, the music master was warm and solicitous in his manner to her. As in the past, Mary enjoyed their time together more than almost anything else. And now there was the added possibility of hearing news from him of the Netherfield family. Although Mary had quickly sworn him to silence as to her whereabouts, the silence did not apply in both directions. In fact, she encouraged him to speak of Netherfield at every reasonable opportunity.
“Well, you perhaps have not heard, Miss Bennet,” he told her one time. “The boy Michael has nearly recovered his strength. He came in to listen to his sisters’ lessons when I was there a week ago, and we shared a few words together. I would not be surprised if he should return to the instrument when he is fully recovered. It often takes something shocking, even grave, to teach us what is important.”
Another time he said, “That Miss Lavinia Farnsworth! She is hopeless! Even I can do nothing with her. Always I am saying to her, ‘Why cannot you be more like Miss Bennet?’ But it does no good. She has no taste and no true feeling for music. I think Mr. Farnsworth is wasting his money on that one. The daughters, I can be of use to, not the sister.”
By far the most startling communication he ever related, however, carried no news of Netherfield at all. On his most recent visit to Pemberley, in the middle of December, he spoke purely of his own sentiments. Then it was that, at the close of Mary’s lesson, Monsieur Hubert had flung himself at her feet and grasped her hand as desperately as if it were a lifeline thrown a drowning man.
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