The Pursuit of Mary Bennet (7 page)

Chapter 8

T
he day at last arrived for our visit to Linden Hall, Mr. Walsh’s estate, and by now, I had developed a great curiosity about it. Jane, Mrs. Ashton, and I traveled in the chaise. The men rode, except for John Ashton, who insisted on driving Kitty in his curricle. His wife smiled tightly when he suggested it, and Jane made disapproving faces at Kitty, but to no avail. She didn’t see, or pretended not to.

We turned off the road onto a lane, which soon broadened into an avenue lined with sycamores. The house came into view, set atop a gently rising slope, with a broad expanse of verdant lawn reaching toward a small lake. On one side of the house lay gardens crisscrossed with gravel paths, and on the other, a wood. The look of it surprised me. I had expected a more rustic setting.

The house itself featured evenly spaced, linteled windows. A lady stood at the top of the stone steps, Henry’s mother, no doubt. Flanked by a smiling Mr. Walsh and Charles, who had already arrived, she waited to greet us. John Ashton and Kitty had pulled up just ahead of the chaise, and we all ascended the steps together.

“Mama, allow me to present Mrs. Bingley,” Mr. Walsh said.

“Welcome,” she said warmly to Jane. “I’m glad to have the privilege of meeting you at last, since I have known your husband for quite some time now.”

“I’m honored to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Jane said.

“And this is Mr. and Mrs. Ashton.” Mrs. Ashton curtseyed prettily, while her husband gave a small bow. “And last, may I present Miss Mary Bennet and Miss Kitty Bennet?”

Edging closer to me while I acknowledged the introduction first, Kitty clamped her foot on the hem of my dress as I curtseyed, applying a firm pressure and making it impossible for me to rise fully. Not wishing to embarrass her, I spoke softly. “You’re standing on my dress.”

“How ridiculous, Mary. Of course I’m not standing on your dress.” She moved her foot aside and I sprang upright. Jane’s face wore an uneasy expression, and I exerted myself to make up for the lapse in manners.

“How nice to meet you, ma’am,” I said. “Your home is lovely.”

Not content with stepping on my hem, now Kitty shouldered me aside to greet our hostess. “I’ve told Mr. Walsh over and over again how keen I was to meet you, ma’am,” she said. “I declare, I thought I would never get the chance.”

A warm smile lit Mrs. Walsh’s eyes. She was a handsome woman, probably somewhere in her forties. “Shall we go in and have refreshments?” Her son offered her his arm, and they led the way.

The front door opened into a small rotunda. We passed through it into a sitting room warmed by an inviting fire. “What a delightful prospect you have from here!” said Amanda Ashton. “I never saw anything quite so charming. What do you say, John? Do you not agree?” With a bored look, her husband nodded.

When we had all arranged ourselves around a low table spread with platters of fruit, cheese, meats, and bread, Mrs. Walsh poured tea. Tall, arched windows lined one side of the room. “How nice to look out upon the woods from here,” Jane said.

“We are very fond of walking there,” said the older lady. “Henry has had paths constructed, winding all through the grove. It’s quite enchanting.” She looked at her son with motherly pride.

“I’ll take you on a tour later,” he said, “and most likely bore you senseless.”

“Oh, no, never,” Jane said, laughing. “Only think of all the tours of High Tor you have been forced to endure.”

“Absolutely right, Walsh,” Charles put in. “I for one am eager to see all the latest improvements.”

“What a fine-looking instrument,” I said, having spotted the pianoforte upon entering the room. “Do you play, ma’am?”

“Only tolerably,” she said. “Henry has told me you are quite accomplished, however, Miss Bennet. I hope you may be persuaded to play for us later.”

I was astonished to hear he had spoken to his mother about me but managed to stammer out my willingness to play. I looked up and caught Mr. Walsh’s glance.

“Anyone for fishing?” he asked, turning to the men. “I know all the best spots, of course, and I do believe the trout are rising.” This excited much interest, and finally it was arranged that they would spend the morning in that activity, leaving us ladies to talk, do needlework, or read.

The gentlemen went off to gather their fishing rods and reels. After they left, I rose and walked to the windows, where I might look out on the imposing trees and ponder in private.

He has spoken of me to his mother; therefore he must, at times, think of me when we’re apart.
It means nothing, Mary
,
I scolded myself.
Only imagine what he has likely said of Kitty. It is she with whom he spends most of his time. Not you.

B
y the time the men returned, I’d worn myself out with the flutters and began to count myself a simpleton. Kitty had been sending me evil looks all morning. When Mrs. Walsh asked me to play, I quickly agreed. Anything to take my mind off a certain gentleman. I chose
Moonlight Sonata,
then the adagio from a favorite Mozart piece. I should have chosen something bright and ebullient; instead, I chose lyrical.

“Who had the most fish in his creel?” Jane asked. The three men had washed and changed back into more formal attire.

“Much as it pains me to say it, your husband lays claim to that honor,” Mr. Walsh said. “But I was a close second.” We all waited expectantly for Mr. Ashton to chime in, but after a soft belch, he sprawled out on one of the chairs.

After the men had refreshed themselves, our host suggested a tour of the grounds.
Thank God.
I needed an activity besides playing the pianoforte and taking turns about the room. Mr. Ashton begged off, as did Mrs. Walsh, who she said must confer with the cook about dinner. As we exited through the front doors, Kitty pushed ahead and took Mr. Walsh’s arm before he had the opportunity to offer it. Charles escorted Mrs. Ashton, and Jane and I walked arm in arm, trailing behind the others along the avenue toward the far end of the lake.

“I believe Mr. Ashton was in his cups,” Jane said softly.

“Do you? How could you tell?”

“Charles says he always has a flask with him. His eyes looked bleary, and did you not take note of how quickly he seated himself? He could scarcely stand up! I’m certain he’s sleeping it off right now.”

I giggled, and then remembered I should tell Jane about Mrs. Ashton’s peculiar behavior of late. “His wife has been pressing me about Lydia and Wickham. Again.”

Jane frowned. “In what way?”

“At the picnic she expressed concern for Lydia’s welfare and declared she must ‘long’ for her husband, even asking if Lydia was to return to Newcastle after the birth.”

“That
is
strange. Poor creature. I believe she and her husband barely speak. I don’t suspect her of malice, though.”

“Of course not, Jane. You think too well of everybody!” I gave her arm a gentle tug. “Allow me to tell you the rest. When I was cutting flowers the other day, she came upon me and asked if Mr. Darcy and Wickham were half brothers.”

“Wherever did she get such an idea? Mr. Darcy would be horrified if that notion got around!”

“She claimed an acquaintance in Bath told her, and although she didn’t credit it, she wanted to know the truth.”

“Well, perhaps that is all it was.”

“Yet why are Lydia and Wickham such objects of interest to her? I had a strong sense she intended to learn what she could for a purpose.”

“But what purpose could she possibly have?”

“I challenged her on that very thing, and she said since her husband paid her little attention, she was very much drawn to other people’s predicaments.”

“Just as I said. Only imagine the audacity of owning to it!”

“I don’t trust her. I fancy she may be hiding something.” I stopped in the middle of the path. “Jane, I think her outwardly foolish manners may be an act.”

“That is pure speculation, dearest!” Jane said, raising her brows at me.

I shrugged. “Hear me out. I think she uses it to cover up her sharp questions. To make them seem innocent and inoffensive. Believe what you like, but surely we must be extra cautious around her.”

“I think you are mistaken, Mary, but in any case, it wouldn’t hurt to turn the conversation to other matters if Lydia comes up again.”

“I only hope Kitty is using discretion. I saw her in animated discussion with both the Ashtons at the picnic.”

Jane sighed, a wispy sound, expressing her doubts about Kitty’s prudence. “I shall speak to her about it.”

Up ahead, Charles called to us. “Ladies, make haste. Our host is in need of your opinion.”

The group was situated on the lawn near the bank of the lake, looking back toward the house. “What do you think of this spot for a temple, or a folly, perhaps?” Mr. Walsh asked. He raised his brows at Jane and me.

“From here, the vista is lovely. One can see the house, wood, and gardens. But would the structure be visible from the house?” Jane asked.

“From the front door, the breakfast parlor, and the library, yes.” He turned to me. “What do you think, Miss Bennet?”

Before I could answer, Kitty broke in. “I love follies and ruins and such! They make the wood seem inhabited by nymphs or . . . or spirits.”

Mr. Walsh smiled at her. “Yes, Kitty. So you’ve said. But now I should like to hear your sister’s opinion.”

Usually, I did not scruple to tell the truth. But I had always given my opinion too freely, and often was sorry for it later. Although I found temples and follies artificial, it would have been horribly rude to say so. “It’s as fine a spot as any, I believe. It would attract all the notice, since there are no trees nearby to draw the eye.”

“Do I detect a note of disapproval, Miss Bennet?”

Caught out, I felt my color rising. “No, sir. That is, I—”

Kitty stepped between us. “La! Mary thinks such things are frippery. She likes everything plain and unadorned.” It was true, but I rather wished she hadn’t felt the need to point it out.

“I would be in raptures over it!” Mrs. Ashton said. Everybody ignored her.

Charles walked off with Jane and Amanda toward a wildflower garden vibrant with spring colors. From where we were standing, I could see cowslips, marsh marigold, rosemary, and flowering currant. A semicircle of lilac bushes bordered the rear of the garden. Jane called to Kitty, who gave a frustrated grunt before leaving Mr. Walsh and me alone.

I wished the earth would swallow me up, right after I pushed Kitty into the lake.

“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Walsh said, “you may be honest with me. I promise not to take offense.”

“Sir, it is your home and park. My opinion is of no consequence.”

He watched me, hands clasped behind his back. “You are very wrong if you believe that,” he said. “Come, tell me the truth.”

What else was I to do, since he’d already guessed? “Very well. What Kitty said is true. I am not fond of temples, except for the original ones built by the Greeks and Romans. I think they are ostentatious.”

He surprised me by laughing, a resonating sound that seemed to well up from his chest. I grinned ruefully in response. “Well said, Miss Bennet. You’ve taken me down a notch. I’ve often thought the same thing myself, but believed my mother would enjoy it. That is why I was considering it.”

“If it would please your mother, then you should proceed with it, by all means. That is probably the best reason to build such a structure.”

Humor flickered in his eyes. “Have you seen Greek and Roman temples then, Miss Bennet?”

“Of course not. Only my father has quite an extensive library, you see.” My cheeks burned.

“I do see.” He offered his arm. I accepted it, and we strolled toward the others. The heady scent of the lilacs filled the air. “Shall we go on? Let’s take the gravel paths through the woods. I wish to show you the bridge I had constructed over the stream.” He paused a moment, then said softly, “I hope you won’t find it too ornate, Mary.”

I couldn’t stop a tiny chuckle sounding at the back of my throat. When I looked up at him, I realized he was laughing softly. I looked away, and it was a long while before I realized he’d called me Mary.

When we came to the bridge, everybody remarked on its simplicity of style. Ha! Jane winked at me. The stream rippled beneath the stone structure, seemingly in no hurry on its route to the lake. By now, clouds obscured the sun, and the wood had taken on a mysterious aura. I moved away from Mr. Walsh to gain a better view.

“Your wood reminds me of a scene from Shakespeare,” I said, spinning around.

“That’s what I was thinking, too,” Kitty said. I held back a smile, since I was quite certain my sister had never read a single line of the Bard.

Our host glanced at her. “Enlighten us, Miss Kitty. Which play does it put you in mind of?”

An awkward pause ensued, and I heard a barely muffled giggle from Mrs. Ashton. “I-I’m not sure—”

A moment ago I would have she said deserved her comeuppance, but now that it was upon her, I was sorry for her. “She was thinking of
As You Like It,
were you not, Kitty?”

“Or
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
” said Jane, who must have been feeling the same as I.