The Pursuit of Mary Bennet (15 page)

When it became obvious to Kitty that your removal to Longbourn was not going to advance her suit with him, she gave up and transferred her affections to Mr. Walsh’s cousin. Forgive me if I sound cavalier about it; they do seem to have a great liking for each other. He calls nearly every day, and I expect he will offer for her soon. Are you shocked? Kitty is keeping her own counsel, but she seems very much happier and more content than formerly. I think when next you see her, you will notice a great change in her character.

Henry Walsh asks after you whenever Charles sees him. I think he still cares for you, Mary. It is my belief that should you return to High Tor in the near future, he, with some encouragement from you, would still be interested. I have heard from a few of the local gossips that he was seen dancing with the daughter of the local magistrate at a recent assembly, and he called on her the next day. I met Miss Bellcourt once at a private ball; she is a person of delicacy and fashion and plays the harp most beautifully. It is said she will inherit a fortune of £20,000. Enough on that subject!

Please write and tell me how things fare with you. I would particularly like to know if the matter we discussed the morning I left has been improved upon. Do not mention Kitty’s situation to our parents or Lydia. I know I may depend upon your discretion.

Yours,

Jane

Kitty and Mr. Carstairs? How odd! Although I did recall his treating her in quite the gallant manner, she never seemed the least affected. Because she had her sights set on Mr. Walsh, she’d ignored his cousin. Even though he was a member of the clergy, Mr. Carstairs had an easy affability, which would suit Kitty. He wasn’t at all a groveling or overly formal sort of man, like Mr. Collins. I hoped she would accept him, if he indeed made his offer.

I wouldn’t allow myself to think about Mr. Walsh. Naturally he would be attending assemblies and balls, and I was sure he may have danced with a dozen girls. He was pursuing other young ladies with far more to recommend them than I could ever lay claim to. Fashion, beauty, and fortune—what man could resist all three? And in his case, one more quality would be required. The woman he wedded would also need to prove herself an acceptable mother to Amelia. One day he would find someone to love as he had once loved Beth. I hoped he would have the good judgment to tell her—whoever she would be—about his daughter at the outset.

Felicity had awakened and was crying. Having lost all appetite, I laid back, propping myself on my elbow, and leaned over her. “What is it, little Fee?” I said. “I hope you’re not too hungry yet.” I rubbed her stomach and continued to speak nonsense to her. I didn’t know when I’d taken to calling her “little Fee.” It seemed to suit her.

I sat up and lifted her into my arms. Swinging her back and forth in wide arcs, I heard a joyful little chuckle, followed by a sharp intake of breath. She was laughing! Delighted, I carried her out to the avenue, talking to her as though she could understand every word I said, most of which was nonsensical.

I had Felicity, and she would make anything bearable. She would make me happy.

After a while, I repacked the basket, leaving some of the food for the birds to devour. I drank a few sips of very warm ale and decided against feeding Felicity any of the honey water, since she seemed content at present. After arranging the carrying sling across my body, I settled her against my chest and glanced around to make certain I had everything. I spied the volume of
Clarissa,
with Jane’s letter tucked inside, lying on the ground. Both reminders of Henry Walsh. A spike of pain demolished the sense of well-being I’d felt only moments ago while I played with Felicity. And I had to carry the heavy book home, having read not one sentence of it.

Chapter 16

F
or a long while, I did everything in my power to encourage Lydia to form an attachment to Felicity. Every few days, I either pleaded a headache, lied about Mama needing my help, or sneaked out of the house for a walk, forcing her to tend the baby by herself. Each time I returned, the poor thing would be lying in the middle of Lydia’s bed sleeping, but more often, wailing pitifully, while her mother leafed through old issues of
The Lady’s Magazine
or arranged her hair in a new style. When I entered the room, Lydia would glower at me and say, “Where were you, Mary? She’s been crying for hours.” I knew she wouldn’t tolerate my lecturing her about her treatment of Felicity; she had already made that clear.

Even Mama noticed not all was well. One evening after her last feeding, I brought Felicity downstairs to the drawing room after I’d readied her for bed. Papa had retreated to his library by then, so it was only Mama, Lydia, and me in attendance. “Oh, let me see my darling granddaughter!” my mother exclaimed, and so I placed the babe in her arms.

My mother did seem genuinely to enjoy her granddaughter—when she was not crying or fussing, of course. Now she held the child out in front of her, raising her brows, puffing out her cheeks, and making all manner of funny faces, which delighted Felicity. “Oh, will you look at that smile? She looks like you when you were a baby, Lydia.”

For the first time ever, at least in my presence, Lydia took notice of her daughter, smiling and asking, “Did I really look like that?” For the briefest moment, I saw a spark of curiosity flash in her eyes. Mama, to my surprise, set the baby into Lydia’s accepting arms. “There’s a pretty girl,” Lydia said. “There’s my sweet girl.”

A sharp jolt of jealousy nearly overwhelmed me. It caught me by surprise, and I had to make an effort to keep command of my expression. Wasn’t this what I wanted? For Lydia to love Felicity? Yes. Decidedly.
Then what was wrong with me?

“I declare, she is a cute little thing, is she not?” After a moment or two, Felicity began fussing, and Lydia said, “Take her, Mary. She’s sleepy.”

“You put her to bed, Lydia,” I said irritably. “You’re her mother, and you must accustom yourself to doing more for her,” I added.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Mary! It is your responsibility to take her upstairs.”

“Oh? I beg your pardon. You are Felicity’s mother; therefore, you are responsible for her care. I thought I was merely helping you through a difficult time.”

“Mary is right, Lydia. You have been very lax in your attentions to Felicity. She will soon think Mary, not you, is her mama.”

My sister leaped up, jostling the baby. I reacted without thinking, reaching out to steady Lydia. She recoiled from me, turned, and made it as far as the door before she said, “What should I do if she cries?”

“Rock her for a while. That usually soothes her.”

When enough time had elapsed for Lydia to be out of earshot, Mama said, “I have been very much worried about Lydia and her child. She does not seem to have the natural feelings of a mother.”

Still trying to gain the upper hand over my confused emotions, I didn’t answer for a time. I leaned against the back of the chair, forcing a calm I did not feel. “Jane told me this happens sometimes. That some mothers take longer than others to form an attachment with their child, and there’s nothing to be done but wait.”

“I think you should insist, Mary, that Lydia take more responsibility for Felicity. Someday, when she and Wickham get their marital problems sorted out, and she returns to Newcastle, caring for her baby will be on her shoulders. Then what will she do?”

My mother had the fantastic notion that any day now, Wickham would arrive and carry his wife and child off with him and all would be well. Even though we had explained the situation to her on more than one occasion, she simply couldn’t take it in. But this was not the time to attempt to set her straight. “I’ve tried everything, but so far, nothing has worked. Just now, when she held Felicity and smiled at her . . . it was the first time she’s ever done so.”

“She’s an indolent girl, I know, and even if she someday loves Felicity, she’ll still not want to be bothered with her. From now on, I shall try to encourage her, Mary.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“Whom are you encouraging?” Papa had emerged from his cocoon in the library into the middle of our discussion.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Mr. Bennet,” Mama said, winking at me. Both of us knew too well, even though he asked, his interest would wane as soon as we tried to explain.

“I have some news,” he said, surprising us both.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense! What is it?”

“We are to have guests.”

“Guests? Who?” Mama asked. “Why did you not tell me sooner?”

“Because I just learned of it myself, in today’s post.”

“But that was hours ago!” Mama said.

My father’s face folded into his characteristic look of impatience. “Mary, I took your advice and wrote to Charles about the drainage problems some of the tenants are having. Mr. Calvert’s barley crop will be ruined if something is not done soon, you see.”

“Charles is coming, then? And Jane and the baby?” Mama asked.

“No, no. Charles and two friends are coming, men who know of these things and can advise the farmers on how to drain their fields.”

I felt the blood seep from my face. “Which friends?”

“Henry Walsh for one, and the other is a Mr. Carstairs, whom I’ve not met. You must be acquainted with him, Mary. He’s the local vicar.”

With some difficulty, I kept a measured tone. “Yes, I met him during my recent stay at High Tor. He’s Mr. Walsh’s cousin, and a most amiable man.” I knew, however, he was extremely unlikely to be knowledgeable about draining fields. So his purpose in coming must be to speak to Papa about Kitty.

“Mr. Bennet, they cannot stay here. Not with the baby and our most unusual situation. They shall have to stay at the inn in Meryton.”

My parents continued to talk about accommodations for the guests, and my mind drifted away. Henry Walsh coming here! I would have to see him; there would be no avoiding it. How terribly uncomfortable it would be. I heard my father saying something about Netherfield Hall, but the words sounded distant and incomprehensible. A little glimmer of excitement was forming inside me, demanding all my attention.

Stupid girl. Nothing has changed.
He no longer liked me; in fact, he believed I had purposely misled him as to my feelings. Add to that my unwillingness to overlook his faults, and I wondered if he could ever forgive me for rejecting him.

“When do they come?” I asked, interrupting my parents’ discussion.

“In a fortnight. Possibly longer,” Papa said. “I wish it didn’t have to wait, but the time had to suit all three.”

“Mr. Walsh,” Mama said, making a face. “I wish we did not have to accept help from a man who did not want our Kitty.”

I wondered if my younger sister had written to my parents, or if Jane had delivered the news. It suddenly occurred to me that after I’d left High Tor, Henry had done nothing to engage Kitty’s affections. He’d said she was no substitute for me, and it seemed he’d been sincere about that. Nor was he paying his addresses to any of the other young ladies from the ball. There was Miss Bellcourt, whom Jane had mentioned in her letter, but thus far what we knew of his dealings with her consisted of gossip and speculation. As far as I was aware, Henry had not actively sought a wife after I’d left. The realization left me shaken and forced me to question all that had passed between us, and all I had believed about him.

“I would remind you, Mrs. Bennet, we do not know the true nature of their association—only what Kitty believed it to be—and we must welcome him as we would any other guest.”

“Oh, I know, I know. But still, I do not like it,” she said, lifting her brows.

“Try as I might, my dear, I find it difficult to put us in the way of your liking anything.” With that, he rose and said he was returning to his library.

T
he fortnight passed in a blur. I tried to think reasonably, telling myself Mr. Walsh could no longer be interested in me after my behavior at High Tor. Even if he were, would I be able to accept his regard, and be persuaded of its depth and strength? And that his interest went beyond viewing me as a mother for Amelia? These questions lingered in the back of my mind, but I could no longer deny my overwhelming desire to see him again, and to wonder what might transpire during his time with us.

What saved me from running mad was the rhythm of daily life with Felicity. After the evening when Lydia first paid attention to her daughter and I’d reacted so strongly, I closely examined my feelings, which I now realized were a mix of resentment and jealousy. How dare she call Felicity her “sweet girl”? What right did she have, when it was I who bathed Felicity, changed her, comforted her when she fussed, played with her, did everything but feed her? How I longed for that indelible bond.

Felicity slept the night through most of the time, but there were still occasions of her waking and fussing. I always tried to quiet her myself before rousing Lydia. I would tie on a fresh nappie, walk about the room with her, even let her suck the honey-and-water mixture from my finger. One night, when nothing seemed to help, I sank down on the rocking chair and held her close against me. Her little mouth puckered, making sucking sounds, and she turned her head toward my breast. Through my thin night rail, she found my nipple and began to suck. Her tiny hand shot up and pressed against me as she latched on.

A feeling of complete contentment stole over me, so tangible I ached with it. It was visceral, unlike anything I’d ever imagined. At last I was able to experience that most primal connection to the child whom I’d come to love and who meant everything to me. Any moment, I expected her to grow frustrated and cry because no milk was forthcoming, but she continued to suck until she finally drifted off to sleep. It seemed the sucking was what she needed, not the milk.

I crawled back in bed and lay there thinking about what I’d done. My nipples were tingling with the oddest sensation. I knew I shouldn’t have done it, yet it seemed so natural. What if Lydia or Mama had come in and discovered me? They would have been outraged if they found out, possibly have thought me deranged.

But I knew I would do it again, because suckling Felicity was the only way in which I could become her mother. Lydia didn’t want the job, so why not me? That was how I justified my actions, that night and in the days to come.

U
nlike my mother, I held no improbable hopes regarding a reconciliation between Lydia and Wickham. But I suspected she might be communicating with him. Since the morning I’d seen her concealing the mysterious letter, I’d caught her reading other missives a few times, once in her chamber, when I entered unexpectedly. She quickly pressed the parchment into the pages of one of her magazines. I pretended not to have noticed. Another time, she expressed a desire to walk. When I offered to accompany her, she said I must stay to see to Felicity, although she was asleep and Mama was perfectly capable of looking after her for a short time even if she did wake up. I watched Lydia out the window as she strode away from the house. She hadn’t gone ten feet before I saw her extract a letter from her reticule and slow her pace while she read it. That answered the question of why she needed her reticule on a walk.

If she wasn’t writing to Wickham, who then? The man who may be Felicity’s true father? Lydia never spoke of him. Of course, she could not in front of our parents, but since she was generally indiscreet, why wouldn’t she have mentioned him to me? I began to fear that she was planning to run off with the man, taking Felicity with her. And then I would have nothing.

I fervently wished I could draw, so I might sketch Felicity. My sisters and I were woefully untutored in art. Since they had married, Jane and Lizzy both had begun instruction in drawing, but now they were occupied with their children. Not for the first time, I wished our parents had been more diligent about our education.

I had attended a few private parties at which a profile artist had done portraits of the guests. Some had simply studied their subject’s profile and cut. Other artists had used candlelight to cast a shadow and worked from that. In either case, it didn’t seem especially difficult.

I walked to Meryton and purchased some sheets of a delicate black paper, and that evening, persuaded Lydia to hold Felicity while I cut, using my sewing scissors. I had arranged two branches of candles so that Fee’s shadow would be cast upon the wall. Lydia complained of being inconvenienced, but Mama, to my surprise, stood off to the side, clucking and making faces so Felicity would stare at her and thus keep her profile to me.

The scissors felt awkward, and my fingers heavy and unwilling to move properly. When I finished, Lydia proclaimed, “La, Mary, that one looks like Sir William Lucas!”

Sadly, she was right. The face was much too long, the features too large. Blast! This was going to take some practice. “Let me try one more.”