B00BKPAH8O EBOK (22 page)

38

Farewell

Although Mary
knew she might have to leave Netherfield eventually, she had not expected the
necessity to arise so abruptly or by such means. In truth, she had hoped it
would never come at all. Yet now her immediate departure was imperative. She
could not stay another day in the same house as her assailant, and she would
not under any circumstances appeal to the only person who could have saved her.
Mr. Farnsworth – should he even be inclined to assist her – had trouble and
heartache enough of his own.

Unconsciously,
Mary adopted his habit of pacing, taking six strides toward the window of her
room and then six back, over and over again as she considered what to do next.
She was far too agitated to sit still with so much hanging in the balance and
no plan for how to proceed.

Where should
she go, and by what means? She would be welcome to Longbourn, but that would
not serve. Kitty and Tristan were there, Mary remembered with a fresh flush of
embarrassment. Besides, it was too near to Netherfield. What she wanted was to
leave her old life behind completely, to get away and make a fresh start. It
must be a clean and decisive break too, if she were to bear it. No parting
scenes or emotional good byes. She wished to be long gone before anyone in the
house knew of it, and off to someplace safe, where she would not constantly be
seeing and hearing of those now forever lost to her. It must be Pemberley, she
concluded. There she would take her sanctuary; there she would in some manner
come to terms with what had happened.

With her
destination decided, Mary soon had the rest satisfactorily worked out in her
mind. Leaving Netherfield would be the simplest business in the world to
manage… and at the same time, the hardest thing she had ever done.

Whether it was
the thought of departure or the accumulated trauma of the last few days, Mary
could not be certain. But when she sat down to her next task, the tears finally
began to flow – slowly at first and then with a vengeance. She had no more than
headed her letter with the words “Dear Mr. Farnsworth” when the dam that had
held them in check so long suddenly could not contain another drop, and the
flood burst forth.

She wept for
the broken man downstairs keeping vigil by the half-dead body of his son. She
wept for poor Michael, once so full of high spirits and mischief, and for the
wretched mischance that had been his undoing. She wept for the girls, who were
now having the carefully reestablished order in their lives overthrown again.
And she wept for herself as well, for her loss… and for how low she had sunk,
this very act being proof of the complete collapse of her former strongholds.
Of all the emotions she had so fastidiously avoided in years past, self-pity
was the most abhorrent and the last to overtake her.

She had striven
against it in her youth, when she had first comprehended her insurmountable disadvantages
by comparison with her sisters – “hopelessly ill-favored in person and
temperament,” as her mother and others had branded her. Self-pity had not
conquered her then. On the contrary, she had made such cruel characterizations
a rallying cry for building up her strengths, her accomplishments, and her
defenses against further attack. Now, however, she could no longer secretly
harbor any claim to superiority of character or even salvage her self-respect.
All was at an end; all was lost.

It was no good
attempting to write when she could no longer see through the rivers that ran
before her eyes, when sobs racked her body so that her hand could no longer
steady the pen. Mary abandoned the letter and gave herself over to her sorrows
completely, curling up on her bed and crying into her pillow until she fell
asleep, exhausted.

It was some
time later when a hand shook her shoulder. “Miss Bennet,” someone said softly,
rousing her. “Are you well?”

Mary recognized
the voice as belonging to Gwendolyn, and she opened her eyes to find Grace also
alongside her bed. “What?” she asked, still not fully awake.

“Are you well,
Miss?” Gwen repeated. “We wondered when you did not return, and so we came to
find you. It is time for our supper.”

Mary sat up and
rubbed her face with both hands to clear the cobwebs. “Oh, yes, girls. I was
only a little tired, but I had not meant to fall asleep. Give me a moment to
tidy myself, and I will be along directly.”

Again, just as
with the recent situation at Longbourn, Mary was required to exert herself
mightily in hiding how much her feelings were oppressed by what had occurred…
and for what lay ahead. Sitting down to supper with the Farnsworth girls, it
was impossible to forget that this would be their last meal together, or to
ignore the empty chair where Michael should have been.

She looked
about the pleasant room where she had spent a large share of the last four
years and attempted to commit the details to memory – the cheerful wallpaper,
the toys and games they had employed at play, the furniture perfectly
proportioned to fit the children who used it. Then Mary’s eyes greedily took in
the faces beside her one last time – first Grace on her right and then
Gwendolyn on her left, both now become so dear to her.

Mary set her
fork down and got to her feet, saying, “I am sorry, girls. I’m afraid I am not
well after all. I think I shall return to my bed and make an early night of
it.”

Gwen and Grace
both rose from the table to say their good nights.

Instead of the
light embrace and perfunctory kiss they customarily exchanged with their
governess, however, Mary held them both tightly to herself for a long while. “I
want you to know how very proud you have made me,” she told them. “You are both
becoming fine young ladies, and I know I can depend on you to carry on as such…
whatever happens.”

“Why are you
crying, Miss?” asked Grace, looking up into Mary’s eyes, where the tears had
begun to pool once more.

“She is
thinking of Michael,” Gwen answered for her.

“Yes,”
confirmed Mary, releasing the girls and crouching down to Grace’s level. “Life
is full of unexpected turns, and we must do the best we can when we meet with
one. Whatever happens, you must be strong for each other and for your father.
Will you remember that for me?” The girls nodded, and then Mary left them to
hurry back to her own room.

Once there, she
steadied herself and set to work packing together the few belongings she
intended to take with her. She would have to travel light and hope to retrieve
the rest of her things at some later date. For now, a couple of gowns, her
personal items, and perhaps two or three of her most precious books would have
to do. And money: she could not travel without money. Fortunately, she had been
frugal, setting much of her salary aside each month. Now that nest egg would
buy her freedom, giving her the means to make her escape.  

When she had
finished all her other preparations and could think of no way to avoid it, Mary
returned to the letter which she had barely begun two hours before. With a
heavy sigh, she sat down to commence the task again, taking care over every
word.

Dear Mr. Farnsworth,

By the time
you read this, I will have gone from Netherfield forever. Due to what has
happened in the last two days (of which you know only part), I must resign my
position as governess effective immediately, thereby saving you the trouble of
telling me my services are no longer required.

There are no
words adequate to express my sorrow over what has occurred, for which I hold
myself chiefly responsible. I can only promise my continued prayers for
Michael’s recovery and offer my profound apologies to you, sir, that I failed
in my duty to protect him from harm. I also, by my immediate departure, hope to
spare you the inconvenience of ever setting eyes on me again, a circumstance
which you would most understandably wish to avoid. Toward that end, I mean to
accept a position that I have been offered with a reputable family in London, and I will take up residence there immediately.

I do ask
your attention one minute more, however, for I must now speak out on behalf of
your daughters’ welfare. When I am gone, the thought may occur that, instead of
hiring a new governess, you should consider boarding school for the girls. I
implore you to reject the idea, should it ever be suggested. Gwendolyn and
Grace have lost their mother, and now I must leave them too. Do not take their
home and their father from them as well, I beg you.

You will say
that I have already forfeited any right to an interest in your family’s
affairs, and yet I find that the attachment of four years’ duration is not so
easily broken. With my very sincere regard and regrets,

Miss
Mary Bennet

Mary reread the
finished letter. It seemed so woefully inadequate, and yet what more could she
have said that would not be offensive? Should she have told him that she had
come to care for his children as if they were her own? Should she have admitted
that she would miss him as well, that leaving Netherfield would be no less
excruciating than cutting off her right arm? No, it would be selfish, unseemly,
and rude to demand his sympathy by citing her own pain at such a time. She
should not even think of it. And as for the one falsehood she had told, it
seemed a necessary deviation, her only protection against unwanted discovery.

Mary abruptly
folded and sealed the letter. Then there was nothing more to do but wait.

39

Escape

Mary waited for
the familiar sounds and stirrings of the house to still for the night, and then
she waited one hour longer. Only then did she deem it safe to embark upon her
night errand. She believed she could leave the house in the morning without
arousing any undue suspicion, but not if she were carrying a bag packed for
traveling. So the bag, she had determined, would have to leave the house
beforehand, under cover of darkness.

Down the
corridor and stairs Mary crept with it, wincing at every creaking floorboard
and every squeaking hinge. There was a tolerable moon to light her way once she
attained the garden. From there she stole into the wood beyond the stables and
looked for an appropriate hiding spot – someplace secure from the eyes of
passersby yet easily accessible to herself. She ignored the haunting call of
the owl above and the various rustlings in the brush. She could not afford to
be squeamish at this juncture; everything depended on her carrying her mission
through without faltering.

After prowling
about in the shadowy undergrowth near the lane some minutes, Mary came upon the
very thing: the stump of a large, long-fallen tree, now made nurse to a tangle
of new growth. It would, she reasoned, provide adequate cover, and the raised
situation would make retrieving her bag from horseback far more convenient. She
burrowed the article in amongst the concealing thicket atop the stump, took
careful notice of the exact location, and then hurried back toward the house.

She paused on
the lawn to look at Netherfield House once more. In the morning, there would be
no time to stop and bid farewell to what had been her home for over four years,
and Jane and Mr. Bingley’s before that. This moonlight aspect would have to
serve. The pale stone seemed to glow slightly, even in the dimness, but all the
windows were black, all save one. A light burned in the room where Michael lay
with his young soul suspended halfway between life and death. This was as she
would have expected, for Mary knew a continuous vigil was kept for him there.
Never was he left unattended by night or by day.

Mary
instinctively drew back into the shrubbery when a figure – unmistakably a man –
appeared at the window. Then, looking once more, she recognized him. The
silhouetted form belonged to the master of the house. Mr. Farnsworth himself
was keeping watch over his son that night. Mary felt her throat tightening and
the sting of tears in her eyes. She had not thought to see him ever again, and
now this imperfect portrait would be her parting view – imperfect as to the
illumination of his person, but perhaps the most accurate as to the character
of the man. For all his faults and vagaries, she would ultimately remember Mr.
Farnsworth as a man of uprightness and proper feeling.

She was content
to remain in that attitude as long as he was within view, daring not to stir
herself whilst there was any chance he might see her. Having already
accomplished her assignment, she was in no hurry. It seemed they both had the
long hours of the night to pass in waiting and expectancy. For Mary, the
morning would bring departure and moving on; for Mr. Farnsworth, she prayed God
it would bring some relief of anxiety in the form of Michael’s improvement.

~~*~~

Mary had little
sleep that night – only so much as she could collect between two o’clock and
half past the hour of six, fully dressed and sitting in an armchair. She had
returned to her room without incident in the middle of the night, and now meant
to be off as soon as possible. It was several miles to the nearest coaching
inn, and she wished to arrive in good time, with the hope of securing a seat on
the first respectable vehicle traveling north.

Although she
had intended to tell no one she was going, she found she must make one
exception. Mrs. Brand was as sound and trustworthy a person as Mary had ever
come across, and she knew her secret would be safe with her. Mrs. Brand also
kept early hours, so at seven Mary made her way down to the housekeeper’s
workroom.

“Mrs. Brand,”
Mary said, knocking and opening the door at the same time. “May I speak to
you?”

Mrs. Brand
looked up in surprise. “Mercy, child, but you gave me a start! What brings you
to see me so early in the morning? Nothing amiss, I pray.”

“No, nothing
seriously amiss. I have come to bid you good bye; that is all.”

“Good bye, you
say. What is it you are about, Miss? You do not mean to leave Netherfield, do
you?”

“Yes, almost
this moment, Mrs. Brand, and you must not try to dissuade me. I am determined
to go directly. I have said nothing about it to anybody. It would only be
giving trouble needlessly. But I am certain that my leaving is the right and
necessary thing after all that has happened.”

“Oh, no, you
must not go away because you blame yourself for the business with Michael. No
one else will, and besides, the young ladies need you.”

“My good woman,
it is enough for you to know that I have very sound reasons for going. And now
I must ask your assistance on three important points.”

“I still say as
there can be no occasion for your leaving, Missy, but I will do for you
whatever I can.”

“Thank you,
Mrs. Brand. First, I ask that you keep my departure quiet as long as possible,
only speaking of it when I am missed.” Mary then handed her the letter she had
written. “Give this to Mr. Farnsworth whenever you think best.” The housekeeper
nodded, and Mary went on. “Secondly, would you see to it that the rest of my
belongings are transported to Longbourn whenever it is convenient?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Very good. The
other thing I require of you – and this must be guarded in the strictest
confidence – is that you write to me periodically to keep me informed of Master
Michael’s condition. I shall always regret the part I played in his terrible
fall, but I will rest somewhat easier when I know he is out of danger. God
forbid there will be any other outcome in the case, although I must be told
that as well, should it occur. Will you undertake to do this for me?”

“Yes, that I
will, Miss. Where am I to send the letters? Where are you bound?”

“Pemberley.
Direct your letters to the great house at Pemberley, in Derbyshire.”

After engaging
for these arrangements, Mrs. Brand made one final try at overthrowing the need
for them, offering such arguments as seemed to her most likely to persuade Mary
against her planned course of action. It was all for naught, however, and Mary,
suspecting the woman quite capable of conjuring up tears to carry her point,
quickly took leave.

Only one
obstacle remained between herself and a fair escape, and it again required a
degree of stealth and subterfuge beyond what Mary ordinarily had any cause to
employ. But her desperation to be away gave her boldness. Taking no notice of
the wild beating of her own heart, she strolled across the dew-covered lawn as
if it were the most commonplace thing in the world for her to be taking a turn
in the garden at that hour. From there, unchallenged, she made her way down the
incline and past the grove to the entrance of the stables. It was early, yet
she knew there would be somebody about to help her.

Approaching the
doorway, Mary first met with the earthy scents of hay and horses. “Hello,” she
called out. There was the muffled sound of approaching footsteps. “Ah, William,
good. Please saddle Arielle for me,” she said with as much calm assurance as
she could muster.

The groom
regarded her quizzically and did not at once obey.

“Arielle,
please.” she repeated. “I am in a bit of a hurry too, so could you…” Mary
motioned him on his way.

He stood his
ground. “This is quite irregular, Miss. What can be taking you out at this
hour, if you do not mind my asking?”

“I’m afraid I
rather do mind, William. You have instructions from Mr. Farnsworth to make
Arielle available to me whenever I wish. Is that not correct?”

“It is, Miss.
But the master also say as I am not to allow you to go off on your own. Will
you be needing me to accompany you wherever you are bound?”

“That will not
necessary. My cousin Mr. Collins – you saw him the other day, remember? He is
meeting me for another ride. I expect him any minute. So, if you would be so
good as to ready my horse?”

William gave
her one more measured look, and then slowly turned to do as he had been bidden,
coming back ten minutes later with Arielle and leading her outside. He looked
about and seeing no Mr. Collins, he said, “Has your party been detained?”

“Perhaps he
has,” answered Mary. “I believe I hear him coming now, though. Help me into the
saddle.” After he had done so, Mary added, “Ah, yes. I see my cousin
approaching. I shall just ride out to meet him. Thank you, William.”

“Wait, Miss…”
William protested.

Mary did not
remain to hear more. She pulled Arielle’s head round and urged the mare down
the lane at a canter, soon reaching the bend and passing out of sight of the
stables. Then it was the work of only a minute to locate and retrieve her bag.
Even if William should raise an alarm over her unorthodox behaviour, which Mary
considered unlikely, she would be long gone before a pursuit could be mounted.
And why would anybody follow her? She was not a thief who must be run to
ground. Other than one of Mr. Farnsworth’s many horses, which would promptly be
returned to him, Mary took nothing with her that would be missed. Neither did
she leave any tangible remnant of herself behind to be long remembered.