by Jayne Bamber
“Has he – that is, I was not aware that you had a chance to speak with your Mr. Audley yesterday, after everything transpired at Cranbrook.”
“Well, not exactly, but everyone knows how it shall be. He always wanted to marry me, you know, and was only going to marry Miss Sutton because of her mighty fortune. Poor Mr. Audley, I daresay she rather tricked him into it, if you ask me. At any rate, it matters not now. We shall be so happy!”
Caroline had her doubts on that score, but kept them to herself. “Lydia,” Caroline said, turning around to face the girl, and taking her hands. “There is something I wanted to tell you. That is, something I wanted to do for you. I have come into some money, you see – as Seymour’s widow, I am entitled by law to a one-third share of his estate in Scotland. Sir Gerald has very kindly offered to buy out my share, and in addition to that, I have come into another little sum I had thought lost to me… what I am getting at is, I have more money than I know what to do with, and I daresay you are going to need it if you really do wish to wed.”
Lydia only gaped at her for a moment before comprehension dawned on her. “Oh… oh, Caroline! Do you mean – you are giving me a dowry? But why? I have been so awful to you!”
Caroline laughed. “I suppose you have, but the fact that you can admit it means you have grown up a great deal, and I am proud of you in my own strange way, you know. I want you to be happy, perhaps more than I have ever wanted anyone besides myself to be happy before. I am settling ten thousand pounds on you, provided your brother Mr. Darcy will allow it.”
“Let him try to say no!”
“That’s the spirit, my girl.”
Lydia smiled so widely she looked as though she might burst, and impulsively wrapped her arms around Caroline. “Thank you, thank you, a thousand times over! Oh, married at last! How happy Mamma shall be! But you must come with me to choose my wedding clothes! La, I shall go quite distracted!”
Caroline laughed. “Well, and now I think it is time you go distract your sisters, my dear. I have some matters to attend to before I come down for breakfast.”
“Oh, yes – but perhaps I had better go and tell Georgiana – she might be upset if she hears it from anyone else, do you think I ought to?”
“That is very good of you, dearest.”
After Lydia had gone, Caroline opened the drawer of her dressing table and drew out the pamphlet she had held onto, depicting Sanditon. Both Lydia and Georgiana had continued mentioning the place as a desirable alternative to remaining at Rosings over the last week. Though things had taken a better turn for Lydia, and may yet get better for Georgiana, once she had her brother and Elizabeth to comfort her, Caroline still wondered.
She could not remain at Rosings forever, had little wish to return to her brother’s empty house, particularly at this time of year, when London was so ghastly, nor did she wish to remove to Cranbrook with Seymour‘s family. They had all been very kind to her, respectful of the fact that her mourning could not be what theirs was, and Lady Catherine in particular had been her staunchest defender once made aware of the circumstances of her betrothal to Seymour, but Caroline could not in good conscience reside amongst them for any great length of time. She wished to be where Frederick was, as he wished to be where she was. He had no estate, not yet – his own fortune was grand, but not large enough to purchase an estate without the addition of the money she would bring to their marriage, which might not take place for many months.
And yet here was a place they might pass a very happy summer together, free to enjoy one another’s company, their courtship not confined to the shadows as it had been in Kent. She ran her fingers over the illustration at the top of the pamphlet, imagining herself strolling arm-in-arm with Frederick along the seaside promenade, no longer feeling any shame at what her heart could not deny. And then she looked over the words of the pamphlet, the many illnesses the healthful airs claimed to cure. There was one sickness it did not mention – one that would certainly not be seemly to even put in print, and yet she could not resist a small hope....
Pinning her hair up in the simplest twist she had ever worn, she moved over to her little writing desk, and for the first time in three long months, she composed a letter to her brother, at his last known address in Venice.
***
The mood was strange at breakfast. Mr. Audley, Mr. Rushworth, and Captain Wentworth had moved their things over from Cranbrook the previous night, out of respect for the Suttons’ mourning, and Cynthia Sutton had likewise moved back to her family home for the same reason. Everyone was up early that morning, even those who did not usually break their fast at such an hour, and it seemed as though everybody was taking pains to avoid the one subject that must be on everyone’s mind – the tremendous spectacle that had been made by General Tilney at Cranbrook the previous afternoon.
Happily, Mary and Eleanor had successfully retreated to Rosings, avoiding discovery, but Kate had spared no detail when she came home, and told them all she knew of what had transpired. Eleanor was to have a few days’ reprieve from her father – he had accompanied his eldest son to Town, to procure a special license that would allow him and Cynthia to marry in three days’ time, and even Sir Gerald had accompanied them, as if suspicious that Captain Tilney would not go through with it.
Mary and Eleanor were both quite tired, having stayed up late into the night discussing everything that had happened, and Eleanor had confided that she was rather disappointed she would not be able to attend her eldest brother’s wedding, particularly when she felt herself rather instrumental in bringing it about.
After breakfast, Mr. Tilney paid a call at Rosings, and asked Mary and Eleanor to go walking with him. Mary thought he must really be wishing to speak privately with his sister, and had intended to make the first excuse possible to leave them alone together, but Mr. Tilney would not have it. “You are as much a part of this as anyone,” he said to her. “I beg you to stay with us, if you would, please.”
“Well, I suppose I am rather curious....”
“In fact, I have good news,” he replied, leading Mary and Eleanor through the gardens at Rosings. “I spoke to Father this morning, before he set off for London with Fred and Sir Gerald. I did not tell him where you are, Ellie, but I did own to my knowledge of your whereabouts.”
“Oh, no – certainly he shall guess!”
“It is likely he shall, but I think you need not fear. In truth, he was far less angry than distraught. I began to feel it wrong to deceive a man so dismayed – he feared the worst, Eleanor, imagining such things had befallen you as I hesitate to repeat. I could not allow him to continue on so upset, for he was really torturing himself over it so much, that even after our many disagreements I thought it beyond any punishment he deserves.”
“Oh – I had not expected that,” Eleanor replied.
“Nor I,” Mr. Tilney said. “What think you, Mary?”
“That is not for me to say, I am sure. This must be a family matter – you are really under no obligation to include me in such private details.”
“I believe I am. I believe you entitled to know the result of what I involved you in, and beyond that, I think you must begin to acquaint yourself with these family matters, as you call them.”
“Quite right,” Eleanor agreed. “Only tell us what happened – what did Father say, when you told him you know where I am?”
“In fact, I told him a great deal more than that. I told him that you were the principal architect of the scheme that united our brother with an heiress of considerable fortune, an outcome which has pleased Father as much as you might imagine. I shall have to beg your forgiveness, Mary, and that of Miss Harriet and Mr. Rushworth, for denying them their fair share of due credit, for I am sure they did much to bring this all about, as well, but in our father’s eyes I thought it best that Eleanor be the one to thank.”
“Then he must know that I am in the area, to have helped you bring it about.”
Mary began to feel some little pa
nic that the General would be carrying Eleanor off, and thought it would break her heart to part with her new friend, for they had grown so close in so short a space of time that such immediate separation seemed cruel indeed, especially given what the General intended to do with his daughter. Hoping every moment to hear Mr. Tilney contradict her fears, she kept quiet and listened as he continued.
“Father was pleased – grateful even. I daresay he shall never admit as much to you, Ellie, but to me he acknowledged that he has a great deal to be grateful for. You know Fred – we never thought he should do so well as an heiress like Cynthia Sutton. Beyond that, your intervention has saved our family from the threat of scandal, should the truth have ever come out. In light of that, he has consented to allow me to collect you from wherever it is I have hidden you away, and to keep you with me until you wish to return home. You are at liberty to remain as long as you like, and are invited to Fred’s wedding, of course. There will be no further pressure from Father for you to wed against your wishes – I believe Lady Catherine really gave him the business yesterday, regarding forcing marriages upon unwilling young ladies.”
Mary gasped. “But was not Miss Sutton unwilling to abandon Mr. Audley, in favor of your brother?”
“Quite the opposite,” Mr. Tilney said. “It seems my brother was less willing than she, but Father brought him around. I wish I could tell you Mr. Audley was gallant about the whole thing, but – well, at least Miss Lydia shall be happy.”
“Surely you cannot mean Mr. Audley was reluctant to give Miss Sutton up? We were all so sure he was in love with Lydia,” Mary replied.
Mr. Tilney shrugged. “I suppose he was just as desirous of Miss Sutton’s fortune as my father. But of course she must wed Fred – it must be Fred. In truth, he may be the only one not entirely pleased about how everything worked out. Mr. Audley will recover, I am sure – he made such comments amongst us men, you know, that really seemed to indicate that he preferred Lydia. I understand your family will be coming to Rosings ere long, Miss Bennet – perhaps your brother Mr. Darcy might do something there.”
Mary smiled, and looked over at Eleanor, who had fallen silent; tears of joy streamed down her face. “Oh brother, how has this happened? I fled Watford five days ago, fearing the worst, feeling as though my life was quite over – and now, everything is just as it should be. Am I really free to stay with you? For as long as I like?”
“Until you have quite tired of my company!”
“Oh, Brother!” Eleanor leapt into Mr. Tilney’s arms and wept with joy. Mary looked away, pleased at how well things had turned out for her new friend, and how happy Lydia would likely soon become, but she began to feel awkward at her unnecessary presence for such a tender family moment. She had begun to move away when Eleanor reached out and grabbed her hand, without releasing her brother, and drew Mary into their embrace. Mr. Tilney laughed, placing one hand on Mary’s shoulder as Eleanor hugged her. At length, Eleanor drew away, wiping the tears from her face. She glanced between Mary and Mr. Tilney and said, “Oh! But I must go and tell Harriet the good news! She will be so happy I am to stay in Kent!”
“Go on then,” Mr. Tilney said. “Abandon me the moment I give you good news.”
Eleanor gave a little snort and rolled her eyes. “I shan’t be long – continue your walk, and I shall meet you both in a half-hour.” At that, she broke into a run, a joyous spring in her step as she headed in the direction of the dower house.
Mr. Tilney watched his sister go with an affectionate smile, before turning to Mary. “Well, we had better do what she says, and keep walking another half-hour, or I am sure she will be declaring herself very ill-used indeed.”
Mary gave him a teasing look and replied, “I think sometimes you enjoy professing opinions which are not your own. You know very well she shall never be cross with you again in the whole course of her life.”
Mr. Tilney made a droll face at her. “I never took you for an optimist.”
“Oh no?”
“Eminently sensible, to be sure, and yet I see there is a fanciful side to Miss Mary Bennet – I am most interested.”
“I suppose you mean to talk nonsense to me for the next half-hour, sir.”
“Just as I did the night we first met,” he laughed. “At least your mother approved of me on that occasion, you know. I am sure she was quite in awe of my tremendous genius. Your sister Kate tells me your mother will accompany the Darcys to Rosings. Then I shall have yet another ally – happy thought indeed!”
“Yes, they are to arrive in a week – seven days, and in eight days I am sure I must remember to ask you again how happy you are at my mother’s presence at Rosings!”
“I grew up without a mother, Miss Bennet – I am sure I should enjoy any maternal presence.”
“Oh – oh, I am so sorry. It was thoughtless of me to say.”
“No, I ought not to have – here I have been complaining of my father, and you have lost yours.”
“Was your father really so forgiving toward Eleanor? I had not expected it.”
“Nor I. However, he was really in such fine spirits after all the arrangements were made with Sir Gerald, and I saw an opportunity to catch him in better humor than I was ever likely to again, and did my best. I believe I have you to thank for that.”
“No indeed – I cannot see how.”
“Because you have become the voice in my head, Mary. I often find myself thinking, what would Mary Bennet do? And so long as I do just that, all is well.”
Mr. Tilney stopped, and gestured to a bench they had walked up alongside. Mary sat down, and he seated himself very near her, taking her hand in his. “I spoke just now of how eager I am to meet with your family – with your mother in particular. I also mentioned before that I wished you to feel comfortable discussing family matters with Eleanor and me. Can you not think why?”
Mary’s breath caught in her throat, and she looked away, but he touched her face, making her meet his eye.
“What I meant to say is that I want our family to be your family – yours to be mine…. I want to marry you, and if you consent, I mean to ask your mother and brother Darcy’s permission, when they come to Rosings.”
With a wry smile, Mary began to laugh uncontrollably.
Mr. Tilney recoiled, still smiling, but in some confusion. “Does this notion amuse you?”
Fearing she had given him offense, Mary squeezed his hand. “But a thought occurred to me – if my family does not give us their blessing, I shall also come of age in September, though I hope I shall not have to run away!”
Mr. Tilney burst out laughing, clasping both her hands in his as they gave in to their mirth together, and when their laughter was spent, a strange stillness settled over them. She held his gaze, smiling widely, and a moment later, before she quite knew what she was about, she had lunged forward and grabbed him by the lapels, kissing him wildly. He was startled at first, but soon wrapped his arms around her and returned her ardor twice over.
Mary giggled a little when they parted. “Yes – I do not know if I said so, but yes, I will marry you!”
“I had understood that, but thank you for saying so. But was that – I mean – I have never kissed anyone before, Mary....”
“Nor I, sir!”
He furrowed his brows in feigned consternation. “I am not entirely sure I got it quite right, you see – I should like to try again; I am sure I could put forth a little more effort, if I am not taken unawares.”
“Oh dear – it was very forward of me.”
“Not at all – that is, you have my permission, in perpetuity, to do that whenever you like, only I begin to think I may require some practice to do a good job of it.”
“Oh – I see....”
“You know, in the novels, it is always the man who begins – the lady is usually standing in the rain, too, I think.”
“But it is not raining, sir.”
“As to that, well, we must use our imaginations a little, I think – if
you would stand, and do call me Henry – yes, do stand up, and imagine it is raining quite intensely.” Mr. Tilney stood and offered her his hand, helping her to her feet, and he positioned her in a dramatic pose. “Sensational, Mary! Had you ever known you could be such a romantic heroine?”
“No, sir – no, Henry.”
“Well done, I say. Now, we shall imagine the rain, and I have just gotten off my horse, having ridden all day and night to come to your rescue from some nefarious thing.”
“Indeed,” Mary said, her heart racing. He drew closer to her, laughing a little, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “My hair, Henry.”
“Oh, yes – I suppose I must make rather a mess of it.”
“I believe that is the proper way of going about it.”
“Are the pins your own, or have you borrowed them?”
“They are mine.”
“Well then,” he said, pressing his body against hers. He held her with one arm, while he drew his free hand up to her face, stroking her cheek for a moment before he began to pull the pins from her hair, throwing each one to the ground. “Beautiful,” he breathed, once he was done. “Give it a little shake, then.”
“Oh yes – I imagine it is rather windy... here on the moors.”
“Exactly.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “And now....”
Mary closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around him as he finally met her lips with his, and the kiss was absolutely perfect. She really began to feel quite wanton, like a heroine from a novel indeed. And then, at just the right moment for their kiss to end, tinkling laughter met their ears, and they glanced in unison to where Eleanor had been hiding behind a hedge.
Eleanor stepped forward, clapping. “Oh, but that was wonderful! And I am the first to wish you joy!”
“Ellie,” Henry cried. “It has not been a half-hour, I am sure!”