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16

Keeping Occupied

Longbourn house
seemed strangely forlorn when Mary returned to it with Mrs. Bennet after church
that Sunday. The rooms were silent and empty, with nothing to promise either
adventure or novelty of any kind. Mr. Tristan, by his short residence there,
had changed everything. He had become so much a part of the place that it felt
as if something important were missing with him gone away again. Although the
day was arguably no different from dozens of other Sundays past, the ordinary
was suddenly more insipid and more impossible to bear, and the afternoon
crawled miserably by as if dragging the weight of the world behind it.

Mary spent some
time at her old spinet, which pleased her mother as much as herself. Then,
following their dinner of pork and potatoes, the two ladies whiled away the
remaining hours together in the front parlor, Miss Bennet with a book before
her and Mrs. Bennet with chatter enough to be sure her daughter could make no
headway in it.

“Did you notice
Mrs. Plimpton’s hat this morning?” Mrs. Bennet was saying. “Of course you did.
How could anybody have missed seeing that mountain of fruit and feathers piled
up to the sky? The woman must have had to bend over when coming through the
doorway just to keep from knocking the thing off her head. Gauche – that is
what I call it – gauche and irreligious to wear such an abomination to church.
And it is not just my opinion. No one would dare say so, of course, but I make
no doubt everybody was thinking the same thing.”

Listening to
her mother prattle on, Mary was reminded of what Mr. Farnsworth had said to her
so recently. Stimulating conversation was a rare luxury indeed. At that moment
she would have gladly exchanged her current circumstances for another confrontation
with her employer. At least there she felt alive, invigorated even. Thinking
back to what had transpired the day before, she could scarcely believe she had
spoken so freely and not been dismissed. On the contrary, by the way he had
responded, Mr. Farnsworth seemed to be giving her permission to do so again in
future. It would be wise not to depend on it, however. Another day he might be
less tolerant.

“Mary, did you
hear me? Mary!”

“Yes, of
course, Mama. Mrs. Plimpton’s hat, feathers and fruit, an abomination,” she
said without looking up from her neglected book.

“Mercy, child!
I had done with Mrs. Plimpton a good five minutes ago. Sometimes, Mary, I think
you cannot be quite well, the way your mind wanders from what is going on about
you. Mark my words; one of these days, it will get you into real trouble. If
you become distracted whilst walking down the lane, you are just as likely as
not to step out in front of a chaise traveling at breakneck speed. I daresay
all your serious contemplation will not save you then.”

Mary could
think of no adequate rejoinder to this prediction of her own doom – nothing, at
all events, that her mother would either understand or profit by. On such
occasions, she had long since learnt, it was as well to be silent. And in that
ensuing silence, she heard the means of her escape approaching. Mr.
Farnsworth’s carriage had come for her at last. She immediately caught up her
things, kissed her mother’s cheek, and flew out the door into the cool evening
air, where she could breathe again.

~~*~~

One week passed
by, and then two, with nothing but her private lesson with Monsieur Hubert to
lend exceptional interest and pleasure. It was July now and the fine weather
had arrived in Hertfordshire at last, enabling them all to spend more time out
of doors, as they were this particular afternoon. Mary sat with Gwendolyn on a
blanket spread beneath a gnarled, old oak, whilst her two younger charges
played on the lawn.

As always, her
duties at Netherfield kept her industriously employed, and yet Mary could not
stay her mind from sometimes roaming north to Derbyshire, to Pemberley and all
her friends there, wondering how they were getting on. So perhaps her mother
was right after all; perhaps she was not entirely well. Judging by how often
her thoughts returned to dwell on Mr. Tristan, for example, she had to admit
suffering the effects of an emotional entanglement at the very least.

It was no
accident either. After being exposed to Tristan’s enlivening presence, she had
deliberately chosen to step over the line, to allow herself to consider the
possibility that she could have a different kind of life, one that included
him, that she might not be a governess forever after all.

The careful
labor of a decade had been thus undone in only a few weeks’ time, she realized.
After so painstakingly boarding up the door to her heart against assault and
sealing every crack, she had now flung wide a window. One moment, Mary gloried
in the resulting quiet cataclysm – the air, the brightness, the expanse – and
the next it thoroughly terrified her. The daylight had already flooded in,
however; it refused to be gathered up and shut out again.

And it was not
only Mr. Tristan that now had a claim on her heart, she knew, but also the
Netherfield family.

Gwendolyn was
quite an altered creature – her attitude in general and towards her governess
in particular. Her father had ultimately given his consent for the requested
change in bedchambers, and Mary had much of the credit for it. The improvement
might only be temporary, and yet it pleased her to be on such good terms with
the girl for as long as it lasted.

After observing
Grace and Michael at their game of shuttlecock a few minutes more, Mary turned
her attention to Gwendolyn, who was poised with a pensive aspect over a
familiar book. “You have become quite a serious student of Shakespeare, I
think,” said Mary genially. “Or is it only Juliet and Romeo who have captured
your imagination? I shouldn’t be surprised if you had their play nearly
memorized by now for how many times you have read it.”

Gwendolyn
looked up, squinting against the sun breaking through the leaf canopy overhead.
“Are all Shakespeare’s plays like this one? Are they all so beautifully
tragic?”

“Nay, he wrote
histories and farce as well, and I think you really should take some allowance
of those in your daily study. Too much tragedy may be unsafe. I will choose
something more cheerful for you from your father’s library –
Twelfth Night
,
perhaps. I daresay you will learn to like it as much as
Romeo and Juliet
,
although for different reasons.”

“I will try,
but I do not see how anything else could be near as good.”

Mary checked
her watch. “Time for your ride,” she told Gwendolyn. Then to the others she
called the same news as she got to her feet. “Put your playthings up now,
children. It is time we met your father at the stables.

“Hoorah!”
shouted Michael, running to stow his racket in the cloth bag Mary held open for
him.

Grace came more
slowly. “Must I go, Miss Bennet? I had much rather stay here with you.”

Mary collected
Grace’s things into the bag and cinched the drawstring tight. “Certainly you
must go, Grace, and be grateful for your father’s kindness. ‘Tis not every day
a girl has such a special invitation.”

“Then will you
come too?” Grace asked.

Mary laughed
and took her hand. “No,
ma pauvre petite
. I have not been invited. Come
along now, all of you. We must not keep your father waiting.”

Michael needed
no urging. He led the way, galloping down the grassy slope to where the stables
were hidden behind a grove of elm trees. Four saddled horses stood at the ready
when they reached their destination, and Mr. Farnsworth arrived only moments
later.

“Good
afternoon, sir,” said Mary.

“Good
afternoon, Miss Bennet,” he answered, touching the brim of his hat. “Well,
children, I hope you are ready for a good ride,” he said in his customary dry
tone. “I thought we might venture as far as Kirkfield today. What do you say?”

Michael cheered
and Grace nodded dutifully. Gwendolyn said, “Father, may we take Miss Bennet
along? It was Grace’s particular wish that she should come with us.”

Before he could
answer, Mary protested, “No, Gwendolyn. It is not my place, and I really have
no desire to intrude.”

Ignoring her,
Mr. Farnsworth answered his daughter’s question. “Why not. You do ride, I
presume, Miss Bennet.”

“Yes, but…”

“Then it is
settled,” he said decisively.

Mary could only
stare at him. The idea of a ride did not strike her as unpleasant in itself. In
fact, ever since Mr. Tristan had suggested the possibility, she had been
pleasurably anticipating when the chance might come. Yet this was not at all
what she had in mind. She had imagined the outing would be made by her own free
choice… and with a very different riding companion.

Observing her
reaction, Mr. Farnsworth continued. “I see that the scheme is somewhat
distasteful to you, Miss Bennet, and naturally I will not compel you to comply.
You might consider it a favour, though, to me as much as to Grace.”

“A favour to
you, sir? How so?”

“Well… more of
a convenience, really. I am overdue for a report from you about the children’s
progress, and you could give it to me along our way. Two birds, one stone, and
all that. You must admit it is a fine day for riding.”

He was correct
on both counts, maddeningly so; the weather could not have been more obliging,
and it would be an ideal opportunity to consult about the children. She could
not even beg off because of her dress, for the gown she wore was as serviceable
as any summer riding habit. Besides, Mary told herself, it was a chance to
brush up on her skills, so that she might be in better form for another day and
for that other, more pleasant riding partner.

“Very well,
then,” she said presently. “I will go if you wish it, although I must warn you
that I am woefully out of practice.”

“Never mind
about that. We shall find you an accommodating mount and set a gentle pace.”
Mr. Farnsworth turned to the groom and gave orders as to which horse should be
saddled for her. Then, eyeing his restless son, he told Mary, “Wait here with
the girls, whilst Michael and I take a quick turn down the lane and back. Then
we can all set off together.”

Father and son
climbed aboard their respective mounts – the man on a powerfully built bay and
the boy on an appropriately sized pony. Michael used his crop to urge the pony
into first a trot and then a reluctant canter, with his father matching his
pace by his side.

Watching them
ride off, Mary could feel her own excitement building for this next adventure.
She only hoped she would not be sorry for agreeing to it.

17

Taken for a Ride

Mary was sorry
almost immediately. The horse Mr. Farnsworth had assigned her – a little
chestnut mare with a blaze of white like a thunderbolt down its face – was of
lady-like proportions, and yet not of as placid a temperament as she might have
hoped. The jaunty spring in the mare’s step made it impossible for Mary to
settle quietly into her seat at first, and a full mile passed by before horse
and rider could agree upon who was in charge.

The only comfort
was that Mr. Farnsworth took no notice of her struggle. Although he kept a
watchful eye on the children, giving them occasional instructions or
corrections, he all but ignored her as she battled along behind. Only when they
were well down the road did he seem to remember that he also had the governess
in tow.

Dropping back
to join her, he asked, “How are you getting on with Arielle, Miss Bennet? I
trust she is not too much for you to manage.”

“I can manage,
Mr. Farnsworth, although she is not so docile as you implied she would be.”

“I said
accommodating, if you remember, which is not necessarily the same thing. Would
you rather be plodding along on an old nag who can barely put one foot in front
of the other? Surely not! You have a bonny little mare here in Arielle, and now
that you have mastered her, she will serve you well ever after.”

“Ever after? I
had not supposed I would be riding again anytime soon.”

“That will
depend largely upon you, I should think. Arielle is yours to command. I have no
objection to your riding as often as you choose, with the children or on your
own time. If I am unavailable, then a groom can escort you.”

“That is very
generous, Mr. Farnsworth, but quite irregular. A governess does not expect such
privileges.”

His face
dropped into a scowl. “I care not a fig what is expected! I suppose I may do as
I like with what belongs to me.”

Did he mean his
horses or his employees, Mary wondered. Probably both, which would make the
gesture more about control than kindness. Either way, it opened possibilities.
Perhaps when Mr. Tristan returned, they could have their ride together after
all. That was something well worth looking forward to.

“Now, tell me
how the children do with their studies,” Mr. Farnsworth continued.

Gwendolyn had
taken the point, with Michael and Grace following behind her in single file.
Mary and Mr. Farnsworth now brought up the rear, riding side by side at a
walking pace, making for comfortable conversation. The road was not a heavily
traveled one, so they rarely met another soul along the way.

Since there was
nothing of major significance, bad or good, to report, Mary kept her account of
the children brief. Mr. Farnsworth seemed satisfied and soon enough moved on to
a new topic. “So your amiable cousin has been some time in Derbyshire by now.
That must be a great loss to your family, Miss Bennet.”

“A loss to one
part of my family and a gain to another. He is staying with my elder sister and
in company with my younger, you know.”

“Yes, when I
heard where he was bound, I half expected you would ask to be one of the party.
In all the time you have been in my employ, Miss Bennet, I can only recall you
visiting your relations in the north twice. Have you no particular affection
for them?”

“On the
contrary, but I take my responsibilities to Netherfield very seriously. My time
is not my own. As for making use of Mr. Tristan Collins’s trip just now, I
would not have presumed to ask for several weeks’ leave only six months after
abandoning my post when my father died.”

“Several weeks,
no, although perhaps two might have been arranged – might still be arranged.”

“Forgive me,
but how can that be?”

“I have a
sister-in-law who resides in Stafford, the children’s aunt on my late wife’s
side: Julia Bancroft. You must remember her. At all events, she has written me
repeatedly, asking that the girls should come for a visit. I cannot take time
away from my business to go myself. However, it does occur to me that you
might. What if you were to see them safe to Staffordshire? Then, whilst Grace and
Gwendolyn have a week with their aunt, you could take the carriage on from
there to visit your own relations, collecting the girls again on the return. I
would of course send a maid and manservant to accompany you. You would be quite
safe, Miss Bennet.”

“And what of
Michael, sir? What is to become of him whilst I am away?”

Mr. Farnsworth
narrowed his eyes at her. “You flatter yourself, Miss Bennet. I expect that –
between myself, the nursery maids, Mrs. Brand, and my sister – we shall be able
to fill the gaping void left by your absence.”

Mary felt her
cheeks begin to flame. “Of course. There can be no doubt of it,” she mumbled.

“Then what do
you say? Would you be interested in such an undertaking?”

Mary fought to
regain her composure. Presently, she said, “Perhaps, and yet your proposal has
taken me completely by surprise, Mr. Farnsworth. Might I not have a day or two
to think it through before giving you my answer?”

“Very well, but
it seems a perfect plan to me, benefiting one and all.”

With a cluck of
his tongue, Mr. Farnsworth sent his mount dancing obediently ahead, where he
settled into the lead beside Gwendolyn. Mary did likewise, drawing abreast of
Grace. Minute by minute, her confidence on Arielle grew, as did her
satisfaction at having a mount with some life in her. Mr. Farnsworth had been
right about that. A brief period of uneasiness, whilst earning the spirited
mare’s respect, was a small price to pay for all the hours of enjoyment that
might then result.

They followed
the road all the way to Kirkfield, and then headed home by another route – down
trails and skirting farmers’ fields – for the sake of variety. Once back inside
Netherfield Park, Mr. Farnsworth set them all off on a final run for the
stables. Starting from well behind, he then shot past them at a full gallop to
arrive first.

Mary rounded
the last turn with the children just in time to see the master drop neatly from
the saddle and hand the reins over to a groom. He then helped his three
children dismount, and lastly Mary. With his hands secure about her waist, he
eased her to the ground only inches in front of him, being sure she had her
balance before releasing his hold and stepping back. Had the service been
rendered her by a nameless groom, Mary would have thought nothing of it. Coming
from her employer, however, it seemed a singularly personal act.

“Come
children,” she said hastily. “Thank your father, and then back to the house to
get cleaned up.”

“Miss Bennet,”
said Mr. Farnsworth. “You will think about my proposal, won’t you?”

“Sorry, what?”

“About taking
the girls to visit their aunt in Staffordshire.”

“Oh, yes, of
course. I shall give the idea my immediate attention.” With that, Mary turned
and followed the children back toward the house.

They used the
servants’ entrance due to their disheveled appearance, and were met by Mrs.
Brand. “Good heavens,” she exclaimed. “What have we here? I declare, it must be
a pack of beggar children come to my door for a crust of bread and a drink of
water.”

“No, Mrs.
Brand! It is me, Michael,” said the boy.

“Well so it
is!” she said. “I did not recognize you, my lad, beneath all that dirt.
Upstairs with you now, and the next time I see you, you had better look like a
gentleman again instead of a ragamuffin. And you young ladies look near as bad.
Off you go, then. Miss Bennet, you too?”

“Yes, me too, I
am afraid.”

“Well, you may
be dusty from head to foot, but there are roses in your cheeks. So I daresay
the air and exercise has done you more good than harm. Oh, and the post come
whilst you were out. You shall find a letter waiting for you in your room.”

“Thank you Mrs.
Brand.”

They all
traipsed up two flights of back stairs and dispersed to their separate
apartments. Although the children would have help with their toilette, Mary
preferred to cope on her own. After washing and changing to a fresh but
identical gown, she found her letter and settled into the chair by the window.

The hand on the
direction was unmistakably Kitty’s, and the missive bore the distinctive
Pemberley seal. Mary broke it open at once and read.

My Dear Mary,

You must be
in a state of mighty curiosity about how things go on here at Pemberley. First,
I will tell you that we are all very well. With Elizabeth’s little boys to
entertain, I have not had one minute to become bored, even before the arrival
of our charming cousin, and certainly not since.

I must say,
Mary, that you have some very strange ideas about Mr. Tristan and about me, as
you expressed them in your letter, saying that we surely would not like each
other. You could hardly have been more wrong. He clearly likes me well enough,
and I could not be more delighted with him. So, at last we have found one
subject upon which you and I can agree.

Here is the
only thing that gives me a little uneasiness. I am the one who told you to make
yourself agreeable to our cousin, and now I am hoping you will not mind if I
take over that office. I know Mr. Tristan has the highest opinion in the world
of you, for he looks upon you quite as his own sister, and he mentions you with
the greatest fondness. I trust, however, that it is on your side the same as it
seems to be on his: only friendship.

You will
think me very silly for how I have so quickly given up all my former
prejudices, but I now think hearing myself called ‘Mrs. Collins’ might be an
excellent thing indeed. I believe there is a real chance that I could end as
mistress of Longbourn after all!

Have I
shocked you, dear Mary? If so, I hope you will soon forgive and be happy for
me. Pray, write to assure me that I have your blessing, for it may be still two
weeks till I am come back to Longbourn.

Yours,
etc.

Kitty

For Mary, a
knife to her heart could not possibly have been more painful, although this
missive seemed to her more like a stab in the back for the added element of
betrayal in it. An unfamiliar rage welled up inside Mary. To think, her own
sister had set herself up as a rival in the contest for Tristan’s affection!

Or perhaps
there was no contest at all. Perhaps she had only been deceiving herself when
she thought her cousin admired her.
As his own sister… only friendship.
If
these were truly his sentiments, then the battle might be lost already.

In any case,
there was no time to lose. Before it was irrevocably too late, she must get
herself to Derbyshire and see what, if anything, could be done. She darted from
her chair, silently blessing Mr. Farnsworth for providing her the means to go.
She would find her employer and, without revealing the real reason for it,
accept his proposal at once.