B00BKPAH8O EBOK (8 page)

Tristan smiled
down at her, drops of rain still caught in the tangled web of his pale
eyelashes. “No more so than I, I would wager,” he said, jovially. “Come now,
Miss Mary, you mustn’t take such a serious view of things. We have had our
adventure after all, which I must say I enjoyed exceedingly. Will you not admit
that you did as well?”

Before Mary
could decide on an answer, Mrs. Hill opened the door and they were obliged to
go inside.

12

A Step Forward

Mary retreated
at once to her old bedchamber to change out of her wet clothes with the assistance
of the household’s young maid. “You shall have to see what you can do with
these dirty things, Betsy,” she told the girl. “I can wear something else for
now, but I must be back in my customary attire before returning to
Netherfield.”

“Yes, Miss,” said
Betsy, who then began to rattle on about the sudden change in the weather, the
misfortune of the two of them having been caught out in it, what her father
always said about the risk of being struck by lightning, and other such
nonsense.

Mary could not
properly attend. Her mind turned back to the walk out with her cousin. It was
not only the substance of their conversation that seemed to invite continued
reflection. It was the exhilarating dash back to Longbourn in the rain.

Were she to
answer Mr. Tristan’s question honestly, she should tell him that she
had
enjoyed it… prodigiously, in fact. She could not recall when she had last
indulged in the pure pleasure of a physical release. Yet she would probably be
at great pains to avoid owning how it had thrilled her. Why? She could not have
rightly explained, other than it was a natural aspect of her reserved manner
and the staid life she had carefully constructed for herself. Still, she had
never been more tempted to let down her guard than now, with this cousin whom
she began to regard as a true friend.

Once rid of her
wet outer garments, Mary went to the closet, where the things she had left
behind when she took up her post at Netherfield remained. The soft prints and
calicos she found there looked suddenly bright, almost gay, by contrast with
the unvarying somber tones of her governess habit of the last few years. She
scrutinized the some dozen gowns and chose a cheerful blue muslin that had been
a favorite in her former life. With Betsy’s help, Mary slipped it over her head
and fastened it into place. Then she braved a look in the mirror. The gown was
no doubt hopelessly out of fashion (as, she imagined, her sister Lydia would not have scrupled to point out), but at least she was presentable. A little
attention to her mussed hair and she was ready to return downstairs.

Mrs. Bennet had
not yet reappeared. However, Mr. Tristan, in fresh attire and with his wet hair
neatly groomed, awaited her in the parlor.

“Ah, how well
you look, Miss Mary,” he said. “I see that you are none the worse for our
little adventure. And no regrets, I trust?”

“Why should I
have? There was nothing improper in it, was there?”

“Of course not!
I only meant that I shouldn’t think running headlong on a country lane through
a downpour is really in your line – not your usual idea of amusement. You seem
to be of a far more sedate tendency.”

“Well, sir,”
she replied with a touch of indignation, “I think I have as much right to enjoy
a little exercise and adventure as anybody. And I daresay if I can keep up with
three lively children, I can certainly keep up with the likes of you.”

“Well said,
madam! I see I have underestimated you. That shall not occur again, I promise.
And I am delighted to be proved wrong. It gives me reason to hope we shall share
other adventures of a similar character in future. Do you ride, Miss Mary, or
dance?”

“I am fully
capable of both, I assure you, and yet rarely have the opportunity.”

“I trust, my
dear cousin, that shall not always be the case.”

“I very much
hope you are right, Mr. Tristan. Indeed, I look forward to it.”

~~*~~

Mary returned
to Netherfield that evening invigorated and refreshed – for her time away and
for the knowledge that she would see her cousin again in only two days. She had
surprised him – and herself – by owning how much she had enjoyed their shared
escapade. In doing so, she felt as if she had passed an important milestone. To
admit to a joy was to admit to vulnerability, and the voice of caution in her
head always protested loudly against taking the smallest risk of that kind.
This time, however, she was glad she had found the courage to ignore it.

Another cause
for satisfaction was that she had done her duty with regard to her mother’s
demand for her to promote her sister’s good qualities to Mr. Collins. She had
indeed endeavored to do so, although she questioned to what effect. She also
began to question if the two would even suit each other. The more she learnt of
her cousin, the less likely she thought it. Kitty might initially find him appealing,
with his good looks and genial nature. Still, that was no basis for a marriage.
Besides, what would be in it for Mr. Tristan? There was no fortune to be
gained. He did not prize beauty; he had said so himself. And he certainly would
not find in Kitty the well-informed mind or the adventurous spirit he
did
seem to value. No, it would never do, and all their mother’s machinations would
come to naught in the end. In fact, a burgeoning hope in Mary’s heart whispered
that Mr. Tristan might more rightfully prefer herself.  

Immediately
upon reentering Netherfield house, Mary detected a heightened degree of
activity. Usually by that time of night, the place was nearly silent. The
family would have generally retired to their private apartments, and only a few
servants – a scullery maid or two, and a couple of footmen – would still be
actively about their duties. Instead, lights were ablaze all over the house and
people scurried everywhere. Apparently, preparations had already begun for the
dinner on Tuesday.

None of these
efforts need concern her, Mary knew. A governess’s job at such a time was
simply to keep the children out of the way, which was in truth not vastly
different from any other day. Except for their nightly visits with their
father, the children were expected to be little seen and even less often heard.

Mary’s only
added chore in consideration of the special event would be to contrive
something to wear to it. She could no longer claim deep mourning as an excuse
for keeping strictly to her dark colors on a festive occasion. Yet there was no
time or justification for ordering a new gown either. She would simply have to
fashion something suitable from materials at hand. For that purpose, she had
brought with her from Longbourn the best one of her old gowns and her entire
store of haberdashery supplies for reworking it.

Upon achieving
her room, Mary pulled the green pin-dotted muslin from her bag and evaluated it
with a more critical eye. She could not approve of what she saw. Strange that
she had never before noticed how desperately plain the garment was, not only by
London standards but even when judged against the considerably lower mark set
by women of local society. Perhaps if she shortened the sleeves and added a bit
of lace at the neck it would be passable. Mary sighed and went to hang the
gown, lest the wrinkles should set and make matters worse.

“You do not
mean to wear that horrid thing to the dinner, do you?”

Mary instantly
recognized the voice and tone of her eldest pupil. She carefully closed the
door to the wardrobe before turning and answering. “Good evening, Gwendolyn. I
did not hear you come in. As to my gown, it will do very well. A woman’s beauty
comes from within, from the quality of her mind and the purity of her
character, not from outer adornments. You will find it says so quite
particularly in the first letter of St. Peter.”

“Spare me the
sermon. I have had one already today in church, and that was quite enough.” The
girl, wearing only a nightdress, dropped into the chair beside the bookcase.
She pulled a volume from the shelf and began idly paging through it.

“Is there
something you wanted, Gwendolyn?” Mary asked.

“Wanted?” She
said vaguely, flipping another page.

“Yes, why have
you come in? You do not ordinarily prefer my room to yours.”

“Ordinarily
not. It is only that tonight my sister is being more than ordinarily annoying.”
Suddenly, she clapped the book shut and dropped it on the floor with a thud.
“You would think that in a house of this size, there might be rooms enough that
I could have a bedchamber to myself instead of being forced to share one with a
child!”

Mary calmly
picked up the book, returning it to its proper place on the shelf. “You are
nearly a woman now, Gwendolyn, it is true. I suppose it is natural that you should
feel the need for more privacy. Have you spoken to your father about this, or
to your aunt?”

“I did ask
Papa. He said I was just being silly, and that Grace would miss me if I were to
have my own room.”

Having no
privacy herself at present – as exampled by her pupil’s very presence – Mary
could well relate to the girl’s predicament. She then turned her mind back to
when she was of the same age. Longbourn was a fraction the size of Netherfield,
and yet she had not needed to share her bedchamber with anybody. It had in fact
been her refuge, her one sanctuary. Especially when bad weather trapped them
all indoors, it proved the only place in the house where she could go to be by
herself – away from the silly talk of her mother and the wild behavior of her
younger sisters, to be consoled by the more rational company of a book. The
personalities in this case could not be compared to her own family, but the
principal remained the same. “Would you like me to speak to your father for
you?” Mary heard herself asking.

Gwendolyn
hopped to her feet and clasped her hands together under her chin in a gesture
of supplication. “Oh, would you, Miss?” she pleaded.

Mary already
regretted making the offer, and yet could not retract it. “I will if you wish
it, although I doubt that my opinion will carry much weight. Would you not
rather speak to your Aunt Lavinia instead? She is acting mistress of this
house, and your father is sure to take a hint from her more kindly than from
me.”

“She still
thinks of me as a child and would not understand. But you do, Miss. I can see
that you do.”

“Very well,
then. I will do what I can. You must not get your hopes up, though. As I said,
I seem to have precious little influence with your father of late. Now, it is
time for bed, so off you go.”

To Mary’s
astonishment, the girl threw her arms about her, just for a moment, and then
left without another word.

Perhaps she was
making a little progress with Gwendolyn at last. Still, as much as she truly
wished to succeed for her young charge’s sake, Mary judged she would need to
approach the topic with extreme caution in her next interview with the girl’s
father, which would likely be at least a few days off. Mr. Farnsworth might
think her officious for even broaching a subject not strictly related to the
children’s education. She felt she had to try, however. In the meantime, she
would turn the question over in her mind, hoping to hit upon the best strategy
for attempting it. She desired that he would at least respect her views, even
if he were unwilling to comply with her request. Yet it seemed far more likely
he would entirely disregard her opinion or, worse still, berate her for daring
to have one.

Before retiring
to bed herself, Mary penned an overdue letter to Kitty, who had written the
week before, asking for an assessment of Mr. Collins. Mary had not known how to
best answer the question – still did not – and yet she had a responsibility to
try. It was unfair to keep her sister in suspense any longer.

Dearest Kitty,

You must
forgive me for not writing sooner. I needed some little time to form a proper
opinion of our cousin before presuming to share it with anybody else. No doubt
Mama’s report has been most generous in its praise, but you must realize she
would recommend the man to you (and you to him) even if he were only half a
gentleman. Her determination to see you married to the heir to Longbourn has
not abated in the least. And now she has secured lodgings for him at Pemberley
when he comes soon to visit his sister, with the expectation that the two of
you will be much thrown together during his stay.

I have done
as you asked. I have made myself agreeable and entertained our cousin to the
best of my abilities. In truth, it has been no hardship. Quite the reverse, for
Mr. Tristan’s company suits me very well, and I do flatter myself that he has
likewise come to value my friendship. Our tastes and philosophies seem to
coincide in nearly every particular. That does not mean you will like him,
however. In fact, it is a rather strong argument against the idea, since what
you and I admire is almost never the same thing.

Although I
believe you will find our cousin outwardly not unappealing, you are so very,
very different in all your inclinations and ways, that I consider it as quite
impossible you should ever be tolerably happy together. Surely, you will both
perceive this mutual incompatibility at once, and there will be no danger of an
attachment forming on either side.

It will only
remain for Mama to be dealt with when the time comes, and I think you may be
easy on that head as well. Although you might feel yourself unequal to standing
against her, I am certain Mr. Tristan is not a man to be bullied into an
alliance against his will and against all common sense. Of course, it is
possible that you have made great progress on your own side and none of this
concerns you any longer. That would be by far the happiest conclusion. If you
were to come home already engaged to somebody else, Mama could have nothing
more to say.

I must close
now for I have much to do tomorrow. Mr. Tristan is to be the honored guest at a
dinner here at Netherfield on Tuesday, a dinner I am obliged to attend. So, I
must scramble myself into something suitable to wear by then. How I wish you
were here to assist me, for you are much cleverer about fashion than I shall
ever be.