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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.”

“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.