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14

The Netherfield Dinner

Halfway through
dinner, Mary’s cheeks were still burning. She could not meet Mr. Farnsworth’s
eye, nor his sister’s, without seeing the amusement there. They were both
laughing at her, at the way she was dressed and at her discomfort. Her colorful
costume was
not
the latest fashion, then, for Mr. Farnsworth would
surely know from all his time spent in London.

There was in
fact not another plaid gown in the room; nothing but the finest chambrays and
elegant silks with either no pattern at all or only the subtlest variation of
shading. She must look a clown by comparison.              

Thankfully, Sir
William Lucas, her closest companion at table, was completely unaware of the
joke. Mary pretended interest in his conversation as a way of hiding her own
embarrassment. An occasional encouraging comment from her was all he required
to keep him talking when once he began on his favorite topic – recounting his
presentation at St. James’s court.

As for Mr.
Tristan, upon whom all her expectations for enjoyment had formerly depended,
from him she had had a friendly greeting and a few smiles. But she had quite
given up hope of deriving much pleasure beyond from his company that evening.
As the eligible new gentleman in the neighborhood, he had quickly garnered the
attention of every unattached female in the vicinity.

Maria and
Henrietta Lucas thoroughly monopolized him in the drawing room before dinner,
fawning over him so blatantly that Mary could not bear to watch. Now he was
seated by Miss Farnsworth, who seemed to be making every effort to engage his
interest to herself, which was surprising. Mary would have imagined that lady
had her sights set much higher. Perhaps, however, with the advancing years, she
could no longer afford to be too fastidious.

“Has that woman
no shame?” Mrs. Bennet said in Mary’s ear, when taking a break from her running
conversation with Mr. Cavanaugh, who was on her other side. “It is perfectly
disgraceful the way she throws herself at your cousin!”

“Perhaps Miss
Farnsworth is simply trying to be polite, Mama. As hostess, she can hardly deny
what is due Mr. Collins as honored guest.”

“If that is
mere politeness, I should be ashamed to witness her way of showing particular
regard! No, she has set her cap at him, and at having Longbourn too. Mark my
words, Mary. Well, it is a good thing he leaves for the north tomorrow. That is
all I can say. Once he arrives at Pemberley and sees our Kitty, he shall soon
forget all he left behind in Hertfordshire. There is no one here who can rival
our darling girl for amiability and attractiveness of person.”

The thought
failed to cheer Mary, who could not help hoping Mr. Tristan would at least
remember the time spent in
her
company. She certainly would not forget
those hours, for they stood out in her mind as some of the pleasantest she had
ever passed.

~~*~~

Who first
proposed the plan, Mary was never sure. Probably it was one of the young men –
Mr. Dunbar or Mr. Chambers – but when the whole group had reconvened after
dinner, somebody suggested dancing. Soon the idea overtook them all and was
quite a decided thing.

Their host did
not actively promote the notion, nor did he do anything to discourage it. He
leant back in his chair with one leg extended, tapping the fingers of both
hands together in front of his chin. “You are my guests and may do as you
please,” Mr. Farnsworth said languidly.

“Then it is
settled,” said Mr. Dunbar, a confident young man with more air than might
ordinarily be expected of a merchant’s son. “Now, who will play for us? We
cannot have a ball without some music.”

Mr. Cavanaugh,
a distinguished gentleman approaching his prime, spoke up. “Surely amongst all
these accomplished young ladies, there must be more than one with sufficient
musical talent. Miss Farnsworth, can we persuade you?”

“What? And give
up the pleasure of dancing with you, sir? Upon my honor, I would not! Let us
find a better candidate.” She surveyed the company, her eyes inevitably
alighting on Mary. “Ah, yes, Miss Bennet is by far the properest person for the
job.”

Mary hesitated.

“Come now, Miss
Bennet,” continued Miss Lavinia, slowly moving towards her. “Do not be coy.
Monsieur Hubert is always telling me what a superior musician you are. I think
it high time I hear you for myself.”

Mary felt the
eyes of the whole company on her, looking to her expectantly.

 “Surely, if
you are accomplished enough to teach my nieces, playing a few simple tunes for
us will be a trifling thing. You would not deny us that pleasure, would you?
Not unless you mean to lead the dancing yourself.”

To be spared
further embarrassment at Miss Farnsworth’s hands, Mary quickly consented. She
withdrew to the corner of the room and took her place behind the piano-forte,
where she and her plaid gown would be well hidden from view.

Anybody could
see that the Miss Lucases were wild to dance with Mr. Tristan Collins, though
they had to settle for the other two young men as that prize was first claimed
by Miss Farnsworth. The Cavanaughs joined the small set as well, making four
couple, and Mary played country dances for them for nearly an hour.

After Miss
Farnsworth was obliged to give him up, Mr. Tristan danced with the other young
ladies as well before finally approaching his cousin at the instrument. “Will
you do me the very great honor of standing up with me, Miss Mary?” he said,
holding out his hand to her. “I shall not be satisfied until you do, you know.”

“Thank you, but
I’m sure I am of much more use where I am, sir.”

 “Come away,
Mr. Collins,” called Miss Farnsworth. “Leave Miss Bennet to her work, and find
a more ready partner here,” she invited, indicating herself.

He remained as
he was, however, turning his head to answer the lady whilst leaving his hand
extended to Mary. “You are too kind, Miss Farnsworth, but I would very much
like to see you take your turn at the instrument. In fact, if I dared be so
bold, I would insist upon it.”

“You heard the
gentleman, Lavinia,” said Mr. Farnsworth, now standing with arms crossed at the
head of the room. “He is our special guest and we must indulge him in all
things. Let us hear you play so that we may also have the pleasure of watching
Miss Bennet dance. She has certainly earned a change.”

Mary’s
embarrassment had deepened to an extreme during this exchange. She might indeed
have wished for a few minutes with Mr. Tristan to herself. Not like this,
however, not under the scrutiny of her employer as well as all her neighbors.
Nevertheless, her cousin’s hand still awaited her, and the encouraging
expression of his countenance compelled her to take it. She rose without
another thought.

“I have been
looking forward to this chance all night,” he said as he led her onto the
floor. “In truth, since our last adventure, on Sunday, when you told me you
were fully capable of dancing. Here is your opportunity to prove it.”

“I shall do so,
sir, but it seems rather unchivalrous of you to demand of me proof.”

“I do not
demand it, my dear cousin; I only eagerly desire it.”

They took their
places in the set, and the music began.

Through the
first few minutes, Mary was acutely aware of those observing from the borders
of the room. Mr. Farnsworth’s gaze seemed particularly fierce, as if eager to
pounce on any misstep she might make or to criticize her lack of style, which
seemed patently unfair since he refused to dance himself.

Soon, however,
her partner made her forget her detractors, and also made her reform her
indifferent opinion of dancing. Mary had never before understood why other
young people seemed so mad for it. Now, standing up opposite Mr. Tristan, it
impressed her for the first time that the activity might deserve its widespread
acclaim after all, that it indeed held the power to convey to its participants
a brand of exquisite pleasure found nowhere else. The touch of his hand through
her glove; the brush of her skirt across his boot tops; the falling away from
each other with the implicit promise of coming back together again. Yes, there was
a certain magic to it, a poetry in motion.

A resonant
voice roused Mary from these musings. 

“You prove
yourself a fine dancer indeed,” Mr. Tristan was saying. His words came in bits
and phrases as the movements of the dance allowed. “And I enjoyed your playing
as well… My admiration for your abilities grows day by day, Miss Mary,
although… I believe there is at least one here tonight who does not share my
high opinion of you.” He nodded towards the figure now seated at the
piano-forte.

Mary followed his
gaze. “You are correct; Miss Farnsworth has set herself up as my severest
critique… Or perhaps that honor goes to her brother.”

“Oh, no.
Forgive me for disagreeing, but you are quite mistaken there.” They were parted
again, causing another break in the conversation, and leaving Mary wondering
what he meant, until Tristan was able to resume. “The brother speaks well
enough of you; I think it is only the sister who wishes you ill. Whatever did
you do to deserve her censure?”

After circling
round again, Mary answered, “I wish I knew. She is determined to see me
punished for it, though, whatever my offence, forcing me to wear this silly
gown this evening for a start.”

“Is that so?”
Stepping back to allow the other couples to pass between, Tristan appraised his
partner. “Well, she has made a strategic error there,” he said when they were
reunited, “for I think yours by far the prettiest gown in the room, and very
becoming on you.”

Mary felt her
cheeks warming under his praise, and she threw herself into the dance with even
more enthusiasm. What did she care for Miss Farnsworth’s opinion – or for her
brother’s either – when she had clearly earned the esteem of this man of
superior worth? His approval on one side of the balance outweighed the sneers
and belittlement of all the others combined. At that moment, she felt
thoroughly content, even happy, perhaps more so than she had been in a very
long time. And she wasted no more worry for her appearance or for her awkward
situation.

At the finish
of the first song, Mr. Tristan called for another and another, keeping Mary
beside him as his partner to the end. When the guests at last prepared to
depart, she had the opportunity for one more exchange with her cousin.

“So you leave
for Derbyshire in the morning,” she said, stating what they both knew to be
true. “And how long shall you stop there, do you think?”

“Two or three
weeks at the very least. Perhaps a month complete if my sister – or yours –
does not grow weary of my company before then. Is there anything you would have
me to carry to Pemberley for you?”

“No, nothing
except my love for them all. For you, Mr. Tristan, I wish a safe journey.”
After a pause, Mary added, “And that you will not forsake your relations here
in Hertfordshire forever.”

“There is no
danger of that, I promise you. I have enjoyed our time together, Miss Mary,
more than I can say. And although we have had our dance together now, I am
still waiting the chance to claim our ride. Until we meet again, then.”

He took her
hand, pressed it, and was on the point of carrying it to his lips when, from
some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go. Why he should feel such a scruple,
why he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive.
The gallant intention, however, was indubitable, and it stayed with her long
after the gentleman himself had gone.

15

The Play Is the Thing

Mary could not
sleep for thinking of all that had passed that night, and her mind returned
again and again to it the next day, even whilst she should have been fully
engaged with her pupils. It had been a memorable evening, and one not to be
soon recovered from. The awful plaid gown. The look of triumph on Miss
Farnsworth’s face, and the echoing amusement on her brother’s. Her mother’s
praise of Kitty at dinner. Being forced to watch the other ladies dance and
flirt with her cousin.

Yet all this
misery seemed nearly swallowed up by the one redeeming aspect of the event –
Mr. Tristan’s marked attentions to herself at the last. Whilst dancing with
him, she forgot to be embarrassed by her gown. When he bid her adieu, it was as
if everybody else disappeared from view. 

“Miss Bennet?
Was that all right?” the girl asked.

“Yes, Grace,
that was well done. Now it is your turn to read, Michael. Start where your
sister left off, if you please.”

Mary followed
along as he began, but her attention soon drifted once more. By now, Mr.
Tristan would be away, bound for Derbyshire. How she wished she could have gone
with him – to continue in his excellent company, and also to see the families
of her two older sisters. They were
her
true family as well – something
Mary had thought of many times since her father’s death.

She did not
know her nieces and nephews as she ought. She spent her time and solicitude on
somebody else’s children in their place, children who could be taken from her
care at a moment’s notice upon their father’s whim. An involuntary shudder
quaked through her. Looking at her three students there gathered, Mary realized
she had in fact become quite attached to them, just as Jane had suggested. Not
only to Grace, but to Gwendolyn and Michael as well, irrespective of the
trouble they gave. For all she might have imagined herself remaining aloof, it
was simply untrue.

She could not
have said how or when the change had occurred. The why of it was easier to
develop. Who could look upon a motherless child and not be moved? Yet, when the
time came, she would be expected to give them up entirely, to walk out of their
lives forever. What a strange and unnatural position she had taken on as
governess. She was now arguably closer to the Farnsworth children than anybody,
yet she could never be considered a member of the family.

Mary called her
attention back to the schoolroom, and gently corrected Michael on a difficult
word. Then she turned to her oldest pupil. “Did you understand what your
brother read just now, Gwendolyn?”

“How could I,
when everybody in this play seems to talk and behave so very oddly?”

“Yes, they
certainly do according to our modern ways. Shakespeare wrote his plays a long
time ago when people spoke quite differently. You must also take into account
that the story is set down in a kind of poetic style, which is considered very
beautiful.”

“All I can
understand of it is that Juliet’s father is being very cruel to her. She is
only a little older than I am now, and he is going to force her into marrying
some awful old man she barely knows.”

“Very good,
Gwendolyn. You have captured the essence of the scene even without
comprehending every word. And such a situation is not all that unusual even
now, except perhaps for the ages of those involved. A young lady often has
little say in her own life, about whom she marries or anything else.”

“But is that
not mightily unfair?” Gwendolyn asked.

“A girl might
hope to have a kind father with her best interests at heart. As to ‘fair,’ I
cannot say, Gwen. I believe most people tend to judge things just and fair only
when they have their own way. Yet, none of us is allowed to simply please
ourselves. We all have a sworn duty to God, to our country, and to our
families. No one can escape it.”

“Not even the
king, Miss?” asked Grace earnestly.

Michael added
with a giggle. “Not even Father?”

“Not the king,
or even your father, children. Now, let us return to the play and look once more
at this last part. Perhaps we may decipher the meaning together. Michael,
please read it out to us again, one line at a time.”

Gwendolyn,
though her situation was far from being as desperate as Juliet’s, needed some
help with her own father. Mary intended to keep her promise to speak on the
girl’s behalf at first opportunity. If Mr. Farnsworth did not summon her soon,
then she would initiate a conference herself.

At week’s end,
however, the master did send for her. To her knowledge, there had been no crisis
or upheaval, so Mary hoped it would be an ordinary meeting where she could
introduce her business without tempers flaring.

And so it
began.

Mr. Farnsworth
greeted her when she entered the library and, after they both settled into
their customary spots, he called for an account of his children’s activities
and progress, as usual. This Mary was happy to supply, taking her time and
dwelling on the more positive aspects in her report. “And we have begun reading
Shakespeare as well,” she told him finally.

“Ah,
Shakespeare. Very good.” He leant back in his chair and clasped his hands
behind his head. “Play or verse?”

“A play: Romeo
and Juliet.”

“I trust you
know it turns out badly,” he said in a wry tone.

“Of course, but
I think the children are old enough to understand and appreciate the pathos. Or
would you shield them from that sort of unpleasantness? I could select
something else,” Mary offered, wishing to keep the tenor of the meeting
congenial.

Mr. Farnsworth
did not answer immediately. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling, a glimmer of
emotion flickering across his face like candlelight. “No, your play will do,
Miss Bennet,” he said in a more subdued voice. “Shielding my children from the
reality of death is not something I have ever had within my power.” Then he
straightened himself and addressed Mary directly. “Now, was there anything
else?”

Mary hesitated
only a moment. “I did have one more subject I wished to discuss with you, sir.
It is about Gwendolyn.”

“Oh?”

“I promised her
I would speak to you about her desire for her own bedchamber, separate from
Grace, that is. She is a young lady now, and begins to feel the very natural
need for more privacy. It seems to me quite a reasonable request, but she says
you did not take the idea seriously when she proposed it.”

“So, since I
refused her, she has sent you as her emissary.”

“I volunteered
my help. That is all.”

“And this
request of hers. You think it entirely reasonable.”

“I do, sir,
although I know you may not credit my opinion.”

“I confess that
I am at a loss, Miss Bennet. Does this matter relate to the girl’s education in
some way? Because otherwise I fail to see where it is any of your concern.”

She had come
this far; there was no turning back. Mary drew a deep breath, and then pressed
ahead. “Quite apart from my simple wish for her to be happy, Gwendolyn’s health
and state of mind
are
my business, Mr. Farnsworth, for they affect her
ability to concentrate on her studies. In this case, I believe your daughter
would be more content and better rested – and therefore more able to learn –
were she to have her own bedchamber. In a house this size, accommodating her
request cannot present the slightest inconvenience.”

“You presume to
tell me how to run my household as well,” he said evenly, shooting Mary a challenging
look.

Mary felt an
answering defiance rising within her breast. “Am I now to shrink back and
apologize?” she demanded recklessly. “Well, I did not run away when first you
directed that glare at me, sir, the day we met, and neither shall I do so now.
There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the
will of others. You may dismiss me if you wish, Mr. Farnsworth, but you cannot
prevent me from having an opinion and speaking my mind.”

“Obviously,” he
muttered. Harrison Farnsworth held her steady in his gaze a minute, a hint of
his inscrutable thoughts in evidence behind his bright eyes. “Perhaps I should
be grateful for that, Miss Bennet. We should not have one tolerably interesting
conversation between us if you had no opinions and if I had always to be
tip-toeing for fear of frightening you. Stimulating conversation is a luxury
rare enough as it is. With whom can one discuss books? Who is capable of
debating the latest scheme for social reform? That is what I should like to
know.”

Her employer’s
remarks caught Mary completely off guard. Could they be meant as a backhanded
compliment to her? Impossible. Then what was he playing at? She must tread
carefully to avoid being drawn into his game before she knew the rules. “Surely
that is what your family and your London friends are meant to supply,” she
suggested. “They cannot all be ignorant.”

He laughed.
“You might be surprised. London society seems well versed in only one subject: London society. What a bore. As for my sister, although she does talk a great deal, I would
hardly call it good conversation. However, she will serve if what I want is a
lecture on etiquette or lady’s fashion. And I am afraid my brother is no
better. Though I am nearly forty, to him I shall always be an underling, an
inferior creature, a child to be dismissed and whose opinions are not to be
taken seriously.”

“Much the way
you see Gwendolyn,” Mary pointed out.

“But she
is
a child!”

“She is
thirteen, Mr. Farnsworth – old enough to be married in Shakespeare’s day.”

“And old enough
to deserve her own bedchamber, I suppose you mean.”

Mary simply
nodded.

“Very well,
Miss Bennet.” He rose, signaling that the interview was drawing to a close.
“You make a good case. I promise I will give the matter fair and genuine
consideration. Are you satisfied?”

“Well enough
for now, sir.” Mary rose also, and turned to go.

“By the way,”
he said. “I meant to ask if you enjoyed yourself the other night.”

She stopped and
turned slowly back round to face him, expecting to see a mocking glint in his
eye. There was something else in his countenance instead. Could it be concern?
Perhaps he had not meant the comment as a taunt, then, yet it still called up a
rush of awkward recollections to her mind and a flush of pink to her cheeks.
“Did I enjoy myself?” she repeated, stalling for time. “Portions of the evening
were pleasant to me, yes. I believe others enjoyed it far more, however.”

“Your cousin,
our guest of honor: I trust he is one to whom you refer.”

“Yes, I believe
Mr. Tristan Collins was very well pleased, although I was actually thinking
more of your sister. Miss Farnsworth seemed to be laughing the whole night
through.”

“Much of it at
your expense, I believe you mean – the dress and all.”

Mary silently
returned his gaze.

“I am truly
sorry for that, Miss Bennet, and I have reprimanded Lavinia. I cannot imagine
what she was thinking, to go to such lengths to discomfort you. She can have no
reason to dislike you, can she?”

“I expect you
know the answer to that question better than I do, Mr. Farnsworth.”