B00BKPAH8O EBOK (28 page)

49

Full Disclosure

When Mary awoke
next morning, she was a few minutes remembering all that had transpired the day
before, and few minutes more being convinced that her happy recollections were
genuine. Still, until she saw him again, she did not feel as if she could fully
trust the fact that Mr. Farnsworth – Harrison, she corrected herself – loved
her, was solemnly pledged to marry her, and that he would soon carry her home
to Netherfield.

Before she went
in search of her betrothed, however, she determined to dispatch a piece of
business less enjoyable and yet just as necessary. She therefore took up paper
to pen a note to Monsieur Hubert. Although it was not an easy letter to write,
Mary did it without flinching, brought the sealed packet downstairs with her,
and had it sent straightaway to the inn at Lambton. Later she might learn how
its recipient took the news – if he would still be her music instructor though
he could not be her husband. For now, however, all she could think of was
finding Harrison Farnsworth.

He was in the
breakfast room, and his face lit up when he saw her. Starting out of his chair,
he said, “Good morning.”

“Yes, it is,”
she agreed, staring back at him from the doorway.

Presently he
continued, “I thought we might ride together today, if the weather holds. I
have so much to talk to you about, Mary, so much I must tell you.”

“I should enjoy
a ride above all things.” She dropped her eyes self-consciously and set about
filling her plate, suddenly realizing how hungry she was.

“A ride?” said
Kitty, entering the room with her husband at that same moment. “What a splendid
idea. Tristan and I shall go with you, and perhaps Lizzy and Mr. Darcy will as
well. We shall make a party of it. After all, we must not leave the two of you
unchaperoned, must we?”

“I am convinced
that ‘unchaperoned’ is exactly what they had in mind, my dear,” Tristan told
Kitty. “Nevertheless, a bracing ride would be just the thing to clear away the
cobwebs. We have been all too long confined indoors.” To the others he added,
“Have no fear, though. We shall be certain to take a wrong turn and lose
ourselves at the first opportunity. If anybody can be sympathetic to the evils
of a want of privacy, it is I.”

Mr. Tristan
Collins was as good as his word. Although they began as a riding party of four
(Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy declining to join them), they shortly divided into a
pair of twosomes, Kitty and Tristan veering off toward the hills whilst Mary
and Mr. Farnsworth continued down the trail by the stream. Mary took the lead
and set a brisk pace, enjoying the feel of the powerful animal moving beneath
her and the cold air whipping past her cheeks. The knowledge that the man she
loved rode just behind her completed her idea of happiness.

When the trail widened
out enough to admit two riders abreast, she slowed her horse and waited for her
companion to draw alongside. “What was it that you wished to tell me, Harrison?” Mary called out, taking pleasure in hearing his name roll off her tongue. “We
are alone now, and this is your chance.”

A distant peal
of thunder rumbled somewhere off to the west.

Farnsworth
reined in his horse to the walking pace of hers. “I want you to know all –
everything about me, Mary. If we are to be happy together, there can be no secrets
or deceit between us.”

“I quite agree.
My life is an open book; there is nothing you may not know, and very little of
which you are not already aware, I should think.”

“It is quite a
different thing with me, however. I am ten years older, and I had a life before
coming to Hertfordshire, which you can have little knowledge of.” His tone was
very grave. “It is better that you should hear these things now, before we are
married, in case it will make a difference in the way you feel.”

A tremor of
uneasiness trickled down Mary’s spine. “You begin to frighten me, Harrison. Is
there something in your past, some horrible scandal or indiscretion that you
mean to confess to me?”

“Indiscretion,
certainly. Scandal? That too, if it had become widely known, which thankfully
it did not. How horrible the business is, you shall be the judge. Be patient
and I will tell you the whole story.”

Mary said no
more. She drew a deep breath and sat a little straighter in the saddle, bracing
herself for what was to come. Half an hour before, she would have said that
nothing could have shaken her confidence in Mr. Farnsworth, and yet now she
trembled with dread for what he might say. Could that happiness which she had
waited so long to taste be swept away from her lips the very next day? Surely
not; it would be too cruel.

For a long
moment, Mr. Farnsworth remained silent as well, looking afar off into the
distance as they rode apace down the path. “The trouble erupted six years ago,”
he began. “No, I must go farther back.” He sighed and a weary expression came
over his countenance. “As you may know, I made my fortune years ago in the war,
as a captain in His Majesty’s Navy, a fortune which enabled me to marry where I
wished and to set myself up in London in some kind of style. We were happy in
those early years, Constance and I – just the two of us at first, and then with
the added blessing of our daughters. The only point of contention between us
was my necessary absences at sea. Constance hated being left alone at home, and
she begged me to resign my commission. ‘Out of the question,’ I told her. It
was my career, after all, and one I was well suited to. So I came home whenever
I could, and kept promising to retire before long. Then about ten years ago, I
was put ashore earlier than expected after a voyage and came home to surprise
my wife.” He paused.

“She must have
been… delighted to see you,” Mary said tentatively.

“Shocked, more
like. I discovered her there, at our London house, in the arms of an old
acquaintance – a man who had been a lieutenant under my first command, and who
had been more than once a guest in my home. Constance denied everything, of
course. They both did. She claimed Ekhart had come strictly as a friend in time
of need, a shoulder to cry on. You see, she had just lost what would have been
our third child – a boy. And
I
was not there to comfort her, as she
pointed out.”

Again,
Farnsworth paused, but Mary dared not venture any remark on this aspect of the
story. Instead, she observed, “The sky is darkening. Perhaps we should start
back. We can cross here and take the shorter way home.”

He nodded
without comment, and then continued his narrative after the horses had picked
their way through the cold, hock-deep water to the other side. “I made some
discreet inquiries, and the two of them had been seen keeping company about
town, but nothing too alarming. Constance continued to plead her innocence, and
in the end, I decided to believe her. I wanted to, of course. No man likes to
think himself a cuckold. I hoped we could put the unfortunate business behind
us and go on as before. Then, when Michael came along a year and a half later,
it seemed we had succeeded in doing so. With our family growing, I made good on
my promise to retire, and all was well again. Those were happy days. We
laughed, we played with the children, we entertained, and we danced with no
thought for the past.”

Mary glanced
sidelong at him and saw his wistful smile before it faded. “Happy days,” she
repeated.

“Yes… until
Ekhart turned up again. I thought him long gone to Scotland, and then I
happened upon him at my club one night, losing at cards and drinking heavily.
Apparently, he had been at it some time, for he was in rather rough shape. He
spied me and demanded that, in homage to our past service in arms together, I
advance him twenty pounds to settle his debts. It may not surprise you to learn
that I refused his request. From there his behavior deteriorated rapidly until
I was conscripted – along with another gentleman, a fine fellow by the name of Talbot
– to remove the troublemaker from the premises. None too willingly, he came
along, stumbling and cursing all the way to his rooms at a boarding house,
where we prepared to leave him to sleep off his foul mood. Before we went,
however, Ekhart turned on me and fired the fatal shot. He said I should not
look down my nose at him, for he would have the last laugh, since the heir to
my estate…” He took a deep breath and let it out again in a cloud of steam.
“The heir to my estate was his own bastard son.”

Mary gasped in
spite of herself. “Michael?” she whispered.

Mr. Farnsworth
nodded solemnly. “You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. I flew at the
man and nearly tore him limb from limb. Were it not for Talbot being there to
restrain me, I might have murdered a man that night. Does that shock you,
Mary?”

Mary did not
know how to answer.

“Never mind; it
is not a fair question to put to you.”

“Did you
believe what this man said, about Michael, I mean?”

“When I later
considered his assertion rationally, I realized that there was just enough
uncertainty about the date of conception as to cast into doubt whether I had
been at home or away at the time. And then there was Constance’s insistence
that the child be named Michael – Ekhart’s given name. So, yes, I did believe
it, and I acted accordingly. If I was to be miserable, I was determined I
should not be the only one. I took my wife away from her home in town, and from
the society she loved, all but imprisoning her at Netherfield whilst I
hobnobbed in London to spite her. And what is worse, I shunned the boy; I
withheld the merest kindness from him, my own flesh and blood.”

“Yes, he
is
your flesh and blood! Surely no one who has seen the strong resemblance between
the two of you could deny it!”

“Clear enough
in the boy of nine, I grant you, but it was not so obvious in the two-year-old
infant. Michael is my son; I am as certain of that as anything in this world.
Even were he not, however, he had done nothing to deserve what I gave him: my
contempt… and more. Shall I tell you the worst, Mary? Or do you already despise
me?”

They had come
up the rise, out of the wood to an open meadow. A heavy dampness permeated the
air, and Mary noticed the first drops of rain spotting her cloak. “I… I do not
despise you, sir.”

“And yet your
faith in me is shaken by this news. I see it plainly written on your face.”

“No,” Mary said
with far more conviction than she felt. “These are difficult things to hear.
Still, I trust I shall understand you better for it in the end.”

“Then I do not
regret speaking, and I will be bold to tell you one thing more so that my
conscience may be clear, whatever else comes of it.” Farnsworth brought his
horse round and stopped so that he was facing Mary, and as close to her as the
situation allowed. He reached for her hand, held it, and studied it, as if to
give himself an excuse for not meeting her eyes. In a voice thick with emotion
he said, “When I thought… When I thought Michael was a different man’s child…
God forgive me, but I secretly hoped he would not live to inherit my estate. I
prayed for another son to take his place, one that I could be sure was mine.”
Farnsworth lifted his anguished face to look at Mary. “
This
is the guilt
I carry with me always.”

Mary could say
nothing for the distress his words had engendered within her. Her eyes stung
with tears, and a choking sob issued from somewhere deep within her chest. It
sickened her to think this man had ever been brought so low as to wish his own
son harm.

“I see you
understand the gravity of what I have told you, Mary. You cannot think any
worse of me for it than I do myself, however. And I assure you I have been
sorely punished. The sons I wanted were born dead, and then their mother – whom
I still loved, despite everything – was carried off as well. Finally, when I
had begun to regain some hope for the future, to think about the possibility of
a new life with you, it seemed I would lose Michael too, in delayed fulfillment
of my horrid wish. I thank God that He saw fit to give me back my son, and also
that I had had an opportunity to make my peace with Constance before she passed
from this life.” He paused. “But what about you, Mary? Will you really consent
to unite yourself to the black-hearted villain you see before you now? Knowing
what you do, can you still love me?”

50

Teacher, Know Thyself

As the rain
began pouring down in earnest, a crack of thunder broke directly overhead. Mary
screamed, and her mount bolted forward, racing across the field for home. She
did nothing to restrain the animal, only held tight and allowed it to chart its
own course. She welcomed the icy drops striking her face and the wind roaring
in her ears, as if their force might overpower all other unpleasantness, as if
the shock of Harrison Farnsworth’s confession could be outdistanced if only she
flew fast enough.

Another minute
and they had reached the stables, where Mary quickly slid from the saddle and
consigned her mare over to a groom before dashing away again.

Mr. Farnsworth,
who had been hard upon Mary’s heels the whole way, finally overtook her on
foot. “Wait!” he implored her, coming round in front and taking hold of her
shoulders. “I have bared my soul to you, Mary. Have you nothing to say in
response?”

“The rain!” she
cried out. “We must go in. And I
must
be allowed to think before
answering!”

Mary broke free
and ran on to the house. Once inside, she hurried to her own room and closed
the door, pausing there to steady her nerves and stay her trembling hands. She
needed time – time alone to digest what she had just learnt and to reconcile
herself to the altered state of affairs if possible.

Wishing she
could shed all her worries with as little effort, she then began peeling away
her damp clothing, simply letting it fall to the floor where she stood. Once
dry and redressed, she settled herself at her dressing table and regarded the
troubled face she saw in the glass, the one that had looked so serenely content
only a few hours before. Her mind still reeled with all that Harrison had told
her concerning his past, his marriage, his dead wife, and his relationship to
his son.

This new
information explained much about what Mary had observed when first she came to
Netherfield. Now the palpable tension she had noticed in the household made
sense, as well as Mr. Farnsworth’s behavior to his wife and son. She could even
understand – at least in part – what he had suffered at the hands of others and
by the punishment of his own conscience. But did his latterly remorse erase the
vindictiveness of which he had admitted being guilty?

A few years
earlier, she would have had no difficulty judging such a case, and no scruple
doing so either. She would have condemned them both, husband and wife, with
hardly a second thought.

Things had
seemed simpler then, before the clear demarcations she had drawn between right
and wrong were thoroughly tested. True right and wrong were still what they had
always been, of course; only her sympathy for those who sometimes found
themselves over the line had changed. Her former prejudices had been stripped
away, and she had more understanding of the powerful forces that pushed and
pulled at the vulnerable hearts of men.

Experience had
been her teacher. Her unforeseen attachment to the Farnsworth children, her
silent grief over her father’s death, her ambition and infatuation for Mr.
Tristan Collins, her animosity towards her own sister for coming between them,
her painful banishment from Netherfield, and the final realization of her
desperate love for Mr. Farnsworth: each one of these had stripped away another
layer of the armor that had long kept her untouched by commonplace emotional
turmoil.

In the past,
she had been able to moralize over the infamous sins of others with superior
self-satisfaction, both because she had maintained a degree of detachment from
their plights, and because she had never been tempted to such behavior herself.
Could she say the same now?

There was a
knock at the door, and Elizabeth entered a moment later. “Oh, there you are,
dearest,” she said coming over to where Mary still sat at her dressing table. Elizabeth studied her sister’s reflection in the mirror, saying, “Is anything the matter? I
spied Mr. Farnsworth treading to and fro on the gravel out in the rain, looking
very worried. And I see you are currently wearing a similar expression.”

“Oh! Is he
still out in the rain?” Mary crossed immediately to the window and looked down.
There, through the wavy, water-streaked pane, she saw his distorted form – now
paused, and now resuming his purposeful march to nowhere in particular.

“I called to
him,” said Elizabeth, “urging him to come in, but he would not. He says he is
waiting for a word from you.”

Mary made no
answer; she only continued studying the dark figure pacing below.

“I hope you two
have not quarreled,” prompted Elizabeth, to no avail. “Have I mentioned how
very much we both like your Mr. Farnsworth, Mr. Darcy and I? We could not be
more delighted that you have found someone so perfectly suited to you.”

“He is far from
perfect, as it turns out.”

“I did not mean
to say that he was. We all have our faults. We all make mistakes, I believe…
perhaps even
you
, Mary dear.”

Elizabeth was right, of course. What was there of moral high ground left to her, after all?
Portions of her behavior over the past year were mortifying enough to remember,
but when she recollected her
thoughts
… Pride and folly abounded, but
there was far worse. Had she not distinguished something akin to murder in her
heart when Kitty betrayed and Tristan deserted her? And what of her feelings
for Mr. Farnsworth? If she looked more closely, might she discover that her
first symptoms of desire for him had germinated when he was still another
woman’s husband?

If God could
forgive her such things – and she knew that He could – what right had she to
hold past offenses, already confessed and cleansed, against Harrison
Farnsworth?

Mary abruptly
abandoned her window and snatched up a handy shawl. “Thank you, Lizzy,” she
said brightly as she threw it about her shoulders.

“For what?”

Mary was
already halfway out the door.

With a light
heart, she sailed through the passageway and down the stairs. She had always
been so severe on people who were not perfect and so unwilling to show any sign
of frailty herself. Now, however, she rejoiced in her own weaknesses, so
flagrantly displayed over the last year, because it made accepting Mr.
Farnsworth’s past failings not only possible but compulsory.

She crossed the
hall and flung wide the front door.

Twenty feet
away, Farnsworth heard the sound and stopped in his place. He turned and lifted
his face to her – a face dripping with rain and laden with the weight of an
unanswered question.

Mary paused on
the threshold a moment, her breath catching in her throat as she regarded her
beloved in all his tarnished splendor. What a kind convenience, she thought,
that she had been taught to properly know herself just in time – in time to
accept this marred yet magnificent man who had offered her his heart.

Down the steps
she ran, and into the crush of Mr. Farnsworth’s eager embrace. “All is well,”
she told him, as water from his sodden coat soaked through to her skin. “All is
well.”

“Then you have
forgiven me?”

“There is
nothing for me to forgive, dear Harrison. The past is past. Let us leave it
there and make a new start… together.

~~*~~

That evening,
with calm and comfort restored, Mary and Harrison Farnsworth attempted to
reconvene their discussion in the saloon near the fire. Most the others of the
household instinctively understood their need for private conversation, and
they kept their distance. Mrs. Bennet proved the exception, however. But for
Mr. Darcy’s heroic intervention, she would have remained seated alongside Mary
the entire evening, for the purpose of flattering her future son-in-law and
frequently saying how very pleased Mr. Bennet would have been with the match.

“Come with me,
Madam,” said Darcy in a commanding tone as he crossed the room to offer Mrs.
Bennet his arm. “Do be good enough to accompany me to the drawing room. I wish
to hear more of what you were saying earlier about your opinion for how the
room should be freshly furnished.” For this gallant sacrifice, he received the
couple’s silent gratitude and a very promising look of admiration from his
wife.

Their isolation
thus happily restored, Farnsworth said, “Your brother-in-law is a prince among
men.”

“Truly, he is,”
agreed Mary. “And Mama will not always be so intrusive, I trust. It is only
that our engagement is new, and she is caught up in the excitement of the
thing.”

“I cannot fault
her for that; I am rather caught up in the excitement as well.”

Mary blushed
with pleasure.

After a
thoughtful pause, Farnsworth continued. “Dear Mary, I could not be more
gratified that we have laid the past to rest and come to a right understanding
between ourselves. One thing I still wish clarified, however.”

“Yes? What is
it?”

“Your reason –
or reasons – for leaving Netherfield so abruptly. I know you blamed yourself
for Michael’s accident and evidently believed everybody else would too,
including myself. And yet your parting note hinted at something else. I have my
theory, but will you not now tell me the rest?”

Mary dropped
her eyes and for a long minute studied her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.
“It is to do with Clinton,” she finally said in little more than a whisper.

“Just as I
thought,” said Farnsworth with controlled intensity. He got to his feet, strode
to the hearth, and then returned. “I was told that he virtually attacked you in
the servants’ quarters. How long had this been going on, these unwanted
attentions?”

“There had been
a few, more minor incidents in the months prior.”

“And why did
you not report his misconduct?”

“I did. When I
woke one day to find him in my bedchamber, watching me, I went to your sister.
She said she would have Haines speak to the man. It apparently did no good,
however.”

“Hmm. I wish
you had come to me instead.”

“As I recall,
you were out of charity with me at that time. And when the last, violent event
occurred… Well, you had more important matters on your mind.” 

“I am sorry I
was not available to you when you needed me most, Mary. It shall not occur
again. You may be somewhat comforted to know that Clinton is gone and will
never set foot on the grounds of Netherfield again.”

“How did you
know? Who was it that informed on his behavior?”

“Haines. It was
he who saw what happened in the servants’ quarters and later told me of it. I
immediately sent Clinton packing, but by then you had already gone. Haines said
nothing of any past offenses, however.”

“Perhaps your
sister forgot to tell him.”

“Yes, perhaps,”
he muttered, “although I am not at all certain it was forgetfulness. Deliberate
neglect, more like.”

“But, why? I
have asked myself a hundred times why she first befriended and then later
turned against me. I was inclined to lay it to
your
charge, thinking you
might disapprove of your darling sister keeping company with a governess.”

“Not I, no!
Truth be told, I think you would find that Monsieur Hubert was the cause of my
sister’s change in sentiments.”

“Monsieur
Hubert! What can he have to do with the business?”

“I gather his
copious praise of you, samples of which I heard for myself on more than one
occasion, became a cruel thorn in Lavinia’s side.
‘Miss Bennet has such an
ear for music, such a talent. Why cannot you play more like her, Miss Farnsworth,
instead of in this clumsy manner? You must practice day and night if you ever
hope to measure up to Miss Bennet.’
You can imagine that such comparisons,
made by her beloved music master, would hardly have endeared you to the lady.
If she had suspected that the man was in love with you as well, you might have
been murdered in your bed.”

“If that was
truly the source of the trouble, our relations are sure to improve hereafter. I
doubt that dear Monsieur Hubert will be singing my praises any longer.” Then
Mary laughed.

“What is it, my
love?”

“I was just
thinking that perhaps Miss Lavinia will prove to be his new favorite. How would
you feel about having Monsieur Hubert for a brother-in-law?”

“He is welcome
to my sister, so long as he leaves my wife alone.”