The Pursuit of Mary Bennet (6 page)

We walked at a leisurely pace. Hands clasped behind his back, Mr. Walsh seemed content with silence. I liked that about him, that he did not have to fill every empty space with the sound of his own voice. There was no bravado in him.

“What is your favorite season, Miss Bennet?”

I thought for a moment. “Autumn.”

“And I prefer spring above every other. After the drudgery of a long winter, I am impatient to get out of doors again. Tell me what you like about autumn.”

“I suppose I love the colors best of all, and the leaves underfoot. And there is something about the air on an autumn day. It shimmers.”

“Does it?” His eyes held that little gleam of merriment I’d noticed the other night. “I shall have to take note of it this year.”

We’d come to the base of the peak, where boulders and loose stone made the walking difficult. I slipped, nearly losing purchase, before Mr. Walsh took hold of my shoulders to steady me. When afterward he offered his hand, I hesitated. I felt his eyes watching me but could not look at him.

“Miss Bennet, if you will not take my hand, I fear we shall be forced to turn back. The way is too rough for you to walk unaided. I promise to release your hand back to your keeping as soon as we arrive on the path.”

I smiled, still not looking at him, and grasped his hand. In this way we progressed, and in a very short time, placing my hand in his seemed natural. Once we gained the path, the walk, though vigorous, was not difficult. At the top, we found a ledge to sit upon so that we might admire the view. We sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the vista.

“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” I said at last.

“Indeed it is. Now you may understand why I delight in spring. The trees are leafing out, gorse is blooming, and green spreads over hills and peaks like a coverlet. Will you not change your mind, Miss Bennet, and say you like spring best?”

I could not help laughing. “No, sir, I will not. I don’t
dislike
it, though.”

“Charles is a lucky man, to have such a grand estate.”

“But you are content with your own estate, are you not?”

“Very much so. You shall see it next week, and I hope you will find it to your liking.”

I dared to look up at him, and his eyes held mine for a moment. There was nothing there of teasing or mocking, but still, I knew I must not read anything into his remark. He might have said the same to anyone who was soon to visit his home.

“Shall we go? I promised to row your sister around the lake.” A reminder of the excellence of his manners and his desire to please. A climb up High Tor with me meant nothing more to him than a spin around the lake with Kitty.

On the way down, Mr. Walsh asked my opinion of Southey’s biography of Nelson.

“On the whole, it seems balanced, if slightly biased in Lord Nelson’s favor. Have you read it?”

“Yes. A great hero, although the Naples fiasco tarnishes him, as well as the conduct of his personal life.”

“You speak of his . . .
flirtation
with Lady Hamilton?” My cheeks burned. I knew it had gone much further than a “flirtation,” but I couldn’t bring myself to say “affair.”

“I do. Tell me, Miss Bennet, do you believe we should be judged by the totality of our lives, rather than each separate part?”

“You mean, should we consider the admiral’s achievements over his whole lifetime rather than dissecting it piece by piece?”

“Precisely.”

“I could more easily esteem his illustrious deeds if he hadn’t committed the imprudent ones.”

“You cannot, then, set them aside? He was a great leader of men; his courage never faltered. He lost an arm, and ultimately his life, in service to his country.”

“I do admire him for his accomplishments, and yet those imperfections in him . . .” My words tapered off. I wasn’t sure what I wished to express.

“Is human perfection possible, Miss Bennet? I would hate to have my own faults examined too closely.”

By now we were approaching the others. I wanted to tell him
I
could forgive his imperfections, but Kitty saved me from saying something so forward by accosting us with her demands. “Sir, I’ve been waiting a horrid long time for you to row me around the lake.” She gave me a disapproving look. “You cannot keep Mr. Walsh all to yourself, Mary.”

I was mortified.

Henry Walsh bowed slightly in my direction. “Thank you for accompanying me, Miss Bennet.”

I stood rooted to the spot while they walked away, staring after them.
Him.
As they pushed off from shore, a fierce desire to be the one in the boat with him took possession of me. We might have continued our conversation about his . . . faults. Whatever they were, they must be buried in the past, because at present, I could see none. It was just as well, then, that it was Kitty in the boat with him. I might have said something to regret later.

I spied a place to sit by myself with my book. Every so often, the sound of their laughter drifted toward me on the breeze. What Mr. Walsh and I had discussed was more serious in nature. I sighed. Men liked to be entertained by ladies, I thought. They liked to laugh.

I tried to put him out of my mind. But it was hopeless, because all I could think about was the feel of his warm flesh on mine. Our hands clasped together. I would have liked to etch the memory somewhere, so no one could take it away from me. I would have liked to hold it inside forever.

Chapter 7

T
he days boasted glorious spring weather, perfect for all those desirous of fresh air. The men spent hours riding, fishing, and shooting. Since most game was out of season, they had to content themselves with hunting gray squirrels and rabbits. “Not much sport in that,” declared Mr. Ashton.

I walked alone much of the time, although occasionally Jane accompanied me. On one of my solitary rambles, as I passed near the riverbank, I heard a fine male voice singing “Annie Laurie.” I knew it was not Charles, who couldn’t sing at all, so that left one of the other two gentlemen. I sneaked toward the sound, hoping my half boots wouldn’t land on a twig and give me away.

The singing ceased. “I hear you, so you’d best make yourself known.” It was Mr. Walsh.

He must have uncannily good hearing,
I thought, my cheeks already flushing. “It’s Mary Bennet,” I said, walking toward him.

“Miss Bennet, you shock me. Sneaking up on a gentleman is a very risky business. What if I’d had my gun?” He set his rod and reel down and leaped to his feet. He’d shed his coat, and now looked around for it.

“I hardly believe you would have shot me,” I said, chuckling.

He smiled. “Indeed. Your footstep is much lighter than a wild boar’s.” Having found his coat, he slipped it on. He wore no waistcoat or cravat.

“Do forgive me for the intrusion, but when I heard you singing, I had to see who it was. You have an impressive voice, sir.”

“Thank you.” He gave me a wry smile. “I don’t usually sing with others about.”

“Then we will not have the pleasure of hearing you after dinner one evening? I could accompany you, if you’d like.”

“I would never live it down. Bingley and Ashton would make dreadful sport of me.”

All I could do was smile at this. He was no doubt right.

“Perhaps if I could persuade you to sing a duet with me?” he said.

I flushed at the thought. “Oh, never. I have the worst voice imaginable. I have vowed never to sing in company again.”

He laughed. “No! I cannot believe it.” He took my elbow and began to steer me back toward the lane. “You walk every day, I think.”

“When the weather allows, yes.”

“May I join you?”

“Now?”

When he nodded, I said, “But your fishing gear—you don’t want to leave it, do you?”

“I shall walk as far as the avenue, and then I’ll return to my angling.”

We talked only of mundane things How long the excellent weather would last, the number of fish he’d caught that morning, and the length of his stay at High Tor. Probably a few more weeks, he said. Nothing noteworthy, like our conversation about Lord Nelson had been. When we reached the avenue, he bowed. “Enjoy the rest of your walk, Miss Bennet.”

“I hope the fish continue to bite, and do please forgive me for sneaking up on you.”

“Not at all. I’m glad you did.”

His voice rang in my head during the rest of the way.

Her brow is like the snowdrift

Her throat is like the swan

Her face it is the fairest

That e’er the sun shone on.

I imagined he was singing about me. But Annie Laurie had blue eyes, not brown, like mine.

It was Kitty who had blue eyes.

L
ate one morning, Jane asked me to cut fresh flowers for the salon because the vicar was coming to dinner. I donned an apron and, knife in hand, carried my basket toward an area skirting the lane where daffodils grew in profusion. Cutting stems and humming a few bars from a Haydn piece I’d just been practicing, I started when Amanda Ashton came into view. I didn’t bother looking up again until she spoke. “ ‘I saw some golden daffodils; / Beside the lake, beneath the trees, / Waving and dancing in the breeze.’ ”

I smiled, while inwardly cringing at her misquoting of Wordsworth.

“Mary, you look the very picture of the country wife,” she said. Amanda looked the very picture of the kind of woman who never dirtied her hands with gardening. “Do you need any assistance?”

“No, thank you. I’ve only one knife. I’m nearly done, anyway.”

“I do so love daffodils. They make one feel happy, with their bright color and merry aspect. How I would love to grow them! So charming.”

“Why can you not grow them?”

She looked slightly perplexed, as if this were a weighty subject needing hours of thought. Ignoring my question, she asked one of her own. “Have you had any news from your dear family at Longbourn?”

Oh, not this again.
I should have guessed she hadn’t walked out here to tell me about her love of daffodils.

“No, we’ve heard nothing of any consequence.” Papa had penned a few lines, informing us of matters we already knew or could have guessed at, such as: Mama had resumed visits to her sister but otherwise kept to her room; Lydia lay on the chaise most of the time complaining of boredom; he himself remained in his library as much as possible.

The only item of any interest was that they’d engaged a midwife for the birth of Lydia’s child, which had given them, and us too, peace of mind regarding the upcoming event. And one final thing: Lydia had heard nothing from her husband. However, I was not inclined to share any of this with Amanda Ashton.

“Tell me, Miss Bennet, is George Wickham a relation of Mr. Darcy?”

The question was so unexpected, I swiveled to look at her, lost my balance, and fell backward, just managing to catch myself before tumbling completely over. I heard a snicker from Mrs. Ashton as I righted myself.

“A relation? Do you mean a blood relation?”

“I’ve been told they are half brothers.”

“No, indeed, they are not. Mr. Wickham’s father was the steward at Pemberley until his death. That’s the only connection between them.”

“I see.”

If she could pry, I could do so in return. Keeping my voice even, I said, “Why do you ask? And who told you such a falsehood?”

Her mouth stretched into that odd representation of a smile. “I do not recall who told me; one of my acquaintances in Bath, I think. Although I didn’t credit it, I wished to discover whether it was true or not. And I thought you and your family might want to know what was being said.”

“If you didn’t credit it, I rather wonder you took the trouble to ask me about it.”

“I’ve offended you, Mary. I do beg your pardon.”

“You have a remarkable curiosity regarding my sister and Mr. Wickham, and I cannot help wondering why.”

“With no children of my own, and a husband who pays me scant attention—don’t fret; I’m sure you’ve noticed—I have little else with which to entertain myself. Other people’s predicaments are, therefore, of great interest to me.”

What an extraordinary admission.
I wasn’t convinced she was telling the truth, however. For a moment, I challenged her with a skeptical look, but she said nothing further of any note. “I shall continue my walk, then, Mary, and hope you will forgive my impertinence.”

To this I made no answer. I finished my flower gathering and rose, noticing as I did so that Mrs. Ashton was scurrying directly toward the house, seemingly with no intention of walking out any farther. A short while later, as I carried the daffodils to the house, I observed her and Mr. Ashton driving toward the village in his curricle.

It occurred to me then to wonder why she thought of Lydia’s situation as a “predicament.” An uneasy feeling settled at the back of my mind. Did she know something?

T
hat evening, I met the vicar, Rev. Carstairs, for the first time. A cousin of Mr. Walsh, he was quite young, surely no more than two-and-twenty, with a head of dark, unruly hair and a congenial manner. Kitty was seated between him and Mr. Ashton, while I was placed between Mr. Walsh and Mrs. Ashton. To my relief, Charles bore the burden of conversing with Amanda, leaving me free to talk to the other two gentlemen.

“When did you take orders, sir?” I asked between morsels of beef.

“Only last year. Henry was kind enough to offer me the living at Steadly.”

“Andrew is the son of an earl’s daughter,” Mr. Walsh said. “He was in need of gainful employment.”

Both men chuckled, and I saw that they had an easy camaraderie.

“So your father married the earl’s daughter?” Kitty asked Andrew.

He nodded. “I’m sure the earl has long regretted it.” This time the two men laughed out loud.

I found I liked Mr. Carstairs’s sense of humor, but I wasn’t sure if Kitty appreciated it. She smiled hesitantly and looked uncomfortable. Servants removed the platters of beef, replacing them with trays of raspberry and almond tarts, cakes, and custards in small cups. While everybody helped themselves to a sweet, I wondered why Mr. Walsh had never mentioned his own father. His mother was widowed, I knew. Would it be rude to ask?

I should have considered the matter more carefully before speaking. I turned to him and said, “What about your father, Mr. Walsh? Was it a recent loss?”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes darkening. “No. It’s been five years since his death,” he said coldly.

He added nothing further, and I wished I’d never asked. From his curt response, I could see this was not a subject he wished to converse about. He’d never spoken to me in that tone before, and I felt hurt burn in my chest. Was my question really so offensive?

After dinner, I played the pianoforte while Kitty seated herself next to Mr. Walsh, giggling and whispering. He seemed distracted. I noticed his eyes roving about the room, although his head was tilted toward her. Mr. Carstairs turned the pages for me, though it wasn’t really necessary. I played poorly, making a hash of some difficult passages because my attention was not fully engaged. As soon as the piece was finished, I nearly leaped off the bench. Stealing from the room, I sought the privacy of my own chamber. It wasn’t so difficult to escape from Henry Walsh if I applied myself to the task.

W
e had many such evenings. Mr. Carstairs was a frequent visitor and often made the fourth at the whist table. On a few occasions, Jane invited other guests, and I played so everybody else could dance. I grew irritated with seeing all the ladies save myself dancing with Mr. Walsh. My resentment was magnified because I did not feel we were on good terms. Although I’d felt his watchful eyes on more than one occasion, we had exchanged only a few perfunctory words ever since I had asked about his father. Perhaps the question had been impertinent, but it seemed a small thing to forgive.

If this was the way things were to be, I thought I may as well return to Longbourn. My feelings were in a tangle; I desperately wanted his attention but was afraid I wouldn’t know how to behave if he bestowed it on me. For the present, his affection seemed directed at Kitty. He was solicitous of her comfort. He brought her tea, and once fetched her shawl when she said she was chilly. Frequently he was her dance partner, and he always played cards when she requested.

No.
Allowing myself to feel anything for him would leave me far too vulnerable.

One evening while I was straightening the sheet music, he approached me.

“Miss Bennet, are we never to stand up together? Are you the only lady who plays?”

I felt warmth rising up from my neck. “I’m afraid I can’t speak for Jane’s acquaintances, but among my sisters, Elizabeth is the only other who plays.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Bingley could extend her an invitation? She lives in Derbyshire, does she not?”

I laughed. “Some ten miles from here. She has twin daughters who keep her very busy, so I doubt she will visit for the sole purpose of our entertainment.”

“A pity. Are you still set against attending the upcoming ball?”

Oh, why had I ever made that silly statement? Although I felt as if the words were stuck in my throat, I finally choked out an answer. “I-I’ve decided to go. To the ball.”

If I were he, I would have laughed. But he was absolutely serious when said, “Will you promise, then, to stand up with me? The first set? And one other?”

“I will.”

“I’m honored.”

A smile—probably a very silly-looking one—burst out. The world seemed not such a bad place after all.