Almost Persuaded: Miss Mary King (6 page)

He lowered his
head. “Never in your life have you ever given me cause for
shame—until this evening.”

“Papa, you may
be ashamed of me, but I cannot share in your sentiments. I have
nothing of which to be ashamed. Mr. Wickham and I are to be
married.”

He drew a
quick breath and clenched his teeth. “Married? Do not be
ridiculous! Do you suppose for one instant that I would have agreed
to such an alliance with an impoverished foot soldier with no
motive other than securing your recently inherited fortune?”

“I fear you misunderstand him. He and I have talked about
this at length.”
The two of us have come so far in reaching such a mutual
understanding in so short an amount of time.
“He and I are so similar; we
want the same things in life. What do I care that my fortune would
be the means of accomplishing our shared dreams?”

His face
contorted with annoyance. “I will not suffer another word of your
nonsense. You are too good for the likes of that scoundrel. I will
not argue. I have decided you shall never see him again.”

Mary crossed
her arms in defiance. “How shall you accomplish such a feat? Papa,
I am nearly one and twenty. Pray you do not intend to lock me in my
bedroom until the militia decamps.”

“I intend to
send you to Liverpool to live with your uncle and aunt.”

The thought of
being separated from everything she held dear struck her with
force. “No! Papa, how shall I bear it in Liverpool—away from my
home, my friends, from you? We have never been separated.”

“Can you not
see that this is the only way? Fate intervened this evening. I will
not chance anything like this ever happening again.” After a pause,
he placed his hand on her shoulder. “I will do anything in my power
to protect you from scandal—anything—even if it means sending you
away to live with your Liverpool relatives.”

~*~

True to her father’s words, mere days later found Mary
sitting in a carriage across from Miss Heston and passing through
the streets of Meryton. Along with so many of Mary’s personal
belongings, she carried t
he memory of Mr. Wickham; his bruising lips
against hers, his manhood teetering on the brink of her innocence,
stirring her still.

Surely Mr. Wickham’s ardent attentions to me of late have
given rise to an expectation of marriage. What will everyone think
of my precipitous departure?
Now and again, Mary occasioned a glance out the
window at the people on the busy street. In spite of her firm
belief that her companion would not understand, Mary made no
pretence of what she was about, for she had no control of her
heart’s beckoning.

If I could see him one last time, I would carry the moment
in my heart with me for as long as I live.
The sight of a redcoat struck a chord
of anticipation in her chest. She leaned forward and peered out the
window. There he stood, looking as if he were a man with not a care
in the world—proud and tall and handsome as ever with a Bennet
daughter draped on either of his arms. There was no possibility
that he might have seen her in the carriage; the two younger girls
were all that caught his eyes.

Twinges of jealousy stirred her amidst pangs of
discord.
Did
he dare utter a word of what happened between us to anyone? Did he
have a good laugh over his conquest—boast of achieving greater
success than was his due?
She covered her face with both hands and blew out
a frustrated breath.

“Surely you
see now that your father’s actions are for the best.”

Mary huffed.
“Papa was opposed to any sort of alliance with Mr. Wickham from the
start. We never stood a chance in the wake of his stern
disapprobation.”

“Your father
is not without his reasons.”

“What have you
to accuse the gentleman of now, Anne?”

“Your father
has taken me in his confidence in that regard. He has it on good
authority that Mr. Wickham is a gamester. He has incurred
significant debts amongst the local merchants and tradesmen. Is
there any wonder your father would be wary of the gentleman who
only took notice of you once it was made known that you were to
receive a generous inheritance?”

“You know I
never cared about that.”

“You must
start caring about such things. You are an heiress. You have your
whole life to look forward to. Once you are no longer in mourning,
there is the prospect of a Season in town. Your uncle is a wealthy
gentleman with connections and a house in town. Even though he is
adamant that you should marry your cousin, he will not deny you a
Season; I am certain of it.”

Mary would not
let go of her melancholy, despite her companion’s words. Anne
persevered. “One day, you will reflect on this moment, and you will
be ever so grateful for a father who loves you and cares for you
and would do anything to protect you, including sending you to live
far away from the only home you have ever known.”

“That might be
true, but for now, I would rather think of a life I might have had
with a handsome man I might have easily loved in spite of his
faults. Are we not all human, thus subject to human frailties?”
Mary surrendered to her tears.

Anne moved to
sit next to Mary. She embraced the younger woman. “You reached for
happiness. There is no fault in that. Alas, sometimes when we
search for love, we do not always look in the best places.”

Mary suspected
her companion spoke from experience when she spoke of searching for
love in the wrong places. She raised her head and studied her
companion’s face for evidence of the sentiments to which Anne
oftentimes alluded, but never truly confided. The wistful look in
Anne’s eyes and traces of regret in her voice insisted she knew
that of which she spoke all too painfully.

Anne smoothed
Mary’s hair. “You must rid yourself of the grief and despair where
the lieutenant is concerned. You are an heiress on the dawn of an
entirely new manner of living. I believe there will be the prospect
of much gaiety in your future.”

Nothing Anne could say assuaged the tumult in Mary’s
mind.
Perhaps the things Anne pontificates are true, but how can
I possibly think of any of that when my heart still aches for what
might have been?
Waves of despair flooded her entire being. The image of the
young Bennet daughters clinging to his arms would not be repressed.
Recalling all the pleasures of his touch just prior to the havoc of
being discovered by her father, Mary wept.

How I wish it
were me on his arm.

Part 5 – Till this
Moment

In the ensuing months, Mary and Anne had formed a silent
truce as regarded Mr. Wickham. Time and distance had not taught
Mary’s heart to forget the man who would forevermore be considered
her first love, but the forming of new acquaintances had been
enough that her heart no longer ached over the thought of him. Any
consideration she gave to their whirlwind courtship, she kept to
herself.

Sitting across
from Anne in the parlour, Mary studied her companion intently. “You
take an eager interest in your letter, Anne. By the turn of your
countenance, it is from your sister. What news from Meryton?”

“Mary, I am
afraid the news is grave—grave indeed. Please, come and sit next to
me and listen to what my sister wrote.”

Mary did not
like the sound of her friend’s pronouncement, but she did as she
was told. Anne’s sister had been diligent in keeping them abreast
of the goings-on in Meryton over the past months. Normally the news
was good—word of a wedding, a birth, and the like—even an account
of the militia’s decampment to Brighton. Mary had thought the
development would have persuaded her father to allow her to return
to her home. It did not, for his heart was now set on her being in
Liverpool when her cousin returned from the continent in late
autumn.

“Your father
would not want you to learn the nature of the matter I intend to
convey, but you need to hear this. First, prepare yourself for
something dreadful. At last, Mrs. Bennet’s dream of one of her
daughters being married is realised, but its means of coming about
had threatened to ruin the family entirely.”

Catching her breath, Mary shifted in her seat.
What could be so
bad? How might a marriage threaten the prospects of a family with
five daughters?
Her unasked questions soon received an answer.

“Miss Lydia
ran off with—with Mr. Wickham.”

Mary’s mouth gaped.
Lydia, Mr. Wickham!
“No!”
I am aware she travelled to Brighton with
her particular friend, Mrs. Forster.
The subject of how Mr. Bennet had agreed
to such a scheme had been fodder for many a lively debate amongst
the Meryton folks.
Surely he could not have anticipated anything as grave as
this.

“I am afraid
it gets worse. She left the protection of the Forsters and threw
herself in Mr. Wickham’s power, thinking they were to elope to
Gretna Green, but they never did. Mr. Wickham never intended to
marry the foolish girl at all.”

Mary failed to
control her heart’s racing. “But you said there was a wedding.”

“Indeed, but
only after Mr. Bennet and Colonel Forster set off from Longbourn
pursuant to the unhappy news and headed to London to ascertain Miss
Lydia’s whereabouts. Mr. Bennet gave up the search and returned to
Longbourn. In due course, her uncle was the one who discovered
them—living together as would a man and his wife. It is rumoured
the conditions in which they were cohabiting were deplorable. My
sister said Mr. Wickham was forced to marry Miss Lydia to salvage
her honour—the marriage a patched-up affair and at considerable
expense to her uncle in town.”

By now, Mary was pacing the floor.
How could this have happened?
What manner of man
would tempt a young girl to leave the protection of her family and
friends, believing she was in love and to be married?
Mary swallowed the
bitter taste of irony. Although fully aware Anne was speaking, Mary
heard not a word she said.

What manner of
man indeed. He is no more than a predator—preying upon the young,
the innocent, the unsuspecting. Poor Lydia is nearly half the vile
man’s age.

Her father had warned her on more than one occasion that
the gentleman was not to be trusted. Her father had refused to
allow her to be taken advantage of as had been the case with the
youngest Bennet daughter. He had protected her from a fate that
might have been no different from poor Lydia’s; the result
being
she
would have been in the unenviable position of the woman who
now called herself Mrs. George Wickham.

Torn between
relief and remorse, tears welled in her eyes. The life that might
have been hers passed before her—the unhappy wife of a gamester, a
schemer, a mercenary, and a scoundrel. Now perfectly understanding
of how her life might have been, she settled herself in the window
seat. She dabbed at her eyes.

Mary did not
intend to be unhappy. Was hers not a future filled with wonder and
the promise of an upcoming Season in town? Why, even the prospect
of making her cousin’s acquaintance was beginning to spark her
imagination.

Still, Mary
could not contemplate all she had heard without considering how
ridiculous she had been—courting passion beyond reason and deriding
the advice and wisdom of her companion and her own father—both of
whom had known the heartrending pain of misguided love.

Sharp spasms of guilt rippled through her.
How many times have
I secretly wished my own father had been more like Mr.
Bennet
?
Having come within an inch of walking in young Lydia’s
shoes, I cannot help but appreciate that which I derided as cruel
and unfeeling mere months ago.

This knowing
propelled Mary to her feet. “Anne, would you mind terribly if I
forego our walk and return to my room? I have a matter to attend
which I have neglected for far too long.”

She hurried up
the stairs and settled at her writing table. Putting pen to
parchment, she began her letter:

Dearest
Papa,

How can I
thank you for being such an excellent father? Please do not be
annoyed with Anne, for she apprised me of the youngest Bennet
daughter’s harrowing ordeal. I know it all—the failed elopement,
the fornication, her family’s brush with ruin. I hardly know how to
think or how to feel—empathy, indifference?

I can only
ascribe, with unwavering conviction, to the sentiment: there, but
for the grace of God, go I.

Your
ever-loving daughter, Mary

Mary sealed
the missive to her dear father and set it aside. Another missive
came to mind: the one she had received the week earlier from her
cousin, John. She opened the desk drawer and retrieved it. That he
had written to her had originally met with her fierce objection.
The impropriety aside, it undoubtedly was his way of conveying a
familiarity she had not taught herself to reciprocate.

With the
letter in hand, Mary walked to the window overlooking the garden.
She commenced reading John’s letter again, only this time with the
consideration it warranted. He wrote of many things: how he missed
his family and how he longed to see his beloved home. The passage
that now sprang from the page and tugged tenderly at Mary’s
heartstrings was his ardent avowal of wanting to know everything
about her: her joys, her displeasures, and above all else, her
fondest wishes for her future happiness.

Clutching the missive to her bosom, Mary gazed out the
window and contemplated all the magnificence that stretched before
her: the same beautiful flowers, the same pristine paths, and the
same marble statues. Yet, she suffered sentiments akin to seeing it
all for the first time. She smiled.
The dawn of a new life awaits me, and what
a wonderful life it will be.