The Pursuit of Mary Bennet (8 page)

“Yes,” Kitty said, looking relieved. “Both of those. I think.” To my surprise, she caught my eye, and I recognized in her odd half smile an expression of gratitude.

“Ah,” Mr. Walsh said, letting the matter drop. He was not a man who lacked sensibility, yet his comment to Kitty seemed a deliberate attempt to shame her. Why would he have wished to do so? I considered this as we wound our way toward the house but could arrive at no definitive answer. Could he have wished to embarrass her, as she had embarrassed me? That was an idiotic notion if ever there was one, yet it pleased me to think it might be so.

Chapter 9

M
r. Carstairs joined our party for dinner. “Andrew is the youngest vicar in all of England,” Mrs. Walsh said, looking fondly upon her nephew. I wondered if she knew this to be true or if it was merely speculation on her part.

He blushed. “One of the youngest,” he said, correcting her.

“Our vicar is the opposite,” Kitty said. “He is so exceedingly ancient, sometimes I fear he will totter right out of the pulpit onto the floor!”

I winced, but Mr. Carstairs took no offense, smiling along with my sister.

“I’m rather fond of the old man,” Charles said, “since he performed our wedding ceremony.” He and Jane smiled at one another. Sometimes it was hard to bear such wedded bliss.

The meal was simple fare, turbot followed by beef and spring vegetables. I ate a little of everything, saving room for a small piece of pound cake. Afterward, the ladies retired to the sitting room while the men partook of their port.

As soon as we entered, Kitty approached me. “Mary, will you play some dance tunes? I do long to dance!”

“Mr. Ashton will want to play cards,” said his wife.

Jane looked sympathetic. “Perhaps he will agree to a few dances first. Mary?”

“Yes, of course.” I supposed I would not be dancing, then. Apparently I would have to wait for the Pennington ball to stand up with Mr. Walsh.

I wandered over to the instrument and began to look through the sheets of music. Mrs. Walsh entered the room and, when she heard what we were about, insisted on playing.

“Miss Bennet, you must take part in the dancing. I have no desire to do so and am perfectly happy to remain at the pianoforte.” She smiled warmly. To refuse would have been rude.

“Thank you, ma’am.” While waiting for the men, I picked up a book lying on the table, a novel as it turned out, called
The History of Sir
Charles Grandison
. I had never heard of it.

The men wandered in, and Kitty informed them of the plan.

“Good God! Must we?” asked Mr. Ashton. “We only have four couples. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Sit out, if you wish,” Charles said.

“Excellent advice,” John Ashton replied. His wife looked put out but joined him at the card table.

“Grimstock, then?” Mrs. Walsh asked. “It’s best for three couples.”

Everybody nodded, and I sighed with relief. It was an easy dance that even I could perform with grace.

Kitty was gazing expectantly toward our host, who, without hesitation, went to her and said, “May I have the honor?” I had no justification to feel hurt by this, but the fact that they simply seemed to know they would dance together stung.

Charles said, “Well, then, I shall have the pleasure of dancing with my wife.”

That left me with Mr. Carstairs. “Miss Bennet? You’ll have to put the book down, I think.” I smiled sheepishly, not even realizing I was still clutching it.

The music started, and we doubled forward and back, then performed the set and turn. Kitty and Henry were in front of us. She had always been a fine dancer, and he danced well, too, though he seemed rather to be going through the motions than truly enjoying himself. Mr. Carstairs, to my surprise, was exceptionally light on his feet. I actually caught Kitty watching him once or twice.

As soon as one dance finished, we barely had time to catch our breath before Mrs. Walsh struck up another tune. Varying the steps, or the order, made it seem like we weren’t doing the same dance over and over. I wished we would vary the partners. The nearest I came to Henry was when we went through the arches, but that happened so quickly it didn’t count.

And then we were done, quite worn out and ready for refreshment. I thanked Mr. Carstairs and wandered over to where Mrs. Walsh, assisted by Jane, was pouring tea. I accepted a cup, picked up my book, and retreated to a chair set a little away from the others.

Suddenly, the air stirred, and Mr. Walsh was making his way toward me, his eyes never drifting from my face.

“Whist, anyone?” Mr. Ashton called out. “And some brandy, Walsh?”

Henry, ever the polite host, veered abruptly back toward the others. He poured a brandy for his guest and chatted amiably with his cousin while his mother served them tea. Kitty and Charles had joined the Ashtons at the whist table. I waited, my foot tapping the floor. I wanted Henry to hurry back to me. And I wanted him to keep his distance from me. Why was it that every time I was convinced it was Kitty in whom he was interested, he began to take notice of me? It was most vexing.

To distract myself, I opened the copy of
Sir
Charles Grandison
and read the beginning paragraphs twice through without absorbing a single word. And then Henry was there, lowering himself onto the chair next to me.

He glanced at the book in my hands. “Do you read novels, Miss Bennet?”

“No, I don’t. That is to say, I never have, but I might.”
Keep to simple answers, Mary. “No, I don’t” would have sufficed.

“Are you one of those people who think them frivolous and lacking in moral value?” He sipped his tea, not taking his eyes off me.

“Not at all. I read mainly what is in my father’s library, and there are no novels among his personal collection.”

“I shall lend you one of Richardson’s earlier volumes,
Clarissa.
I am still reading this one, which is quite different. My mother is a great novel reader, and I read chiefly what she recommends.” He set his cup on a table and leaned forward, hands resting on his thighs. “You may borrow from my collection anytime.”

“Thank you. I may take you up on your offer whenever I’m visiting Jane and Charles. Novels will be a welcome change for me.”

“How much longer do you plan to remain in Derbyshire?”

“A few more weeks, I should think. Our youngest sister is currently at Longbourn awaiting the birth of a child. Her husband’s regiment—”

“Yes, Charles told me of her circumstances.”

This was awkward. How much had Charles told him? Most likely the same story we were telling everybody. “Jane and I will be expected at home when the child is born.”

“Why you rather than Kitty?”

Shocked at his rather impertinent question and not at all certain what answer to give, I stammered out a completely nonsensical response. “It is only that Jane knows about babies and I . . .”
Oh, Lord, what am I meant to say? “My mother believes you will offer for Kitty any day now, whereas I am the designated nursemaid”?

Aware of my distress, he quickly said, “It is of no consequence, Miss Bennet. But I shall be sorry when you go.”

All at once my cheeks flamed, and at the same time, a jolt of pleasure so great I could scarcely contain it stabbed through me. I looked down, afraid to meet his eyes for fear they would show mockery, or even worse, sarcasm.

“Mary,” he said softly. “Will you look at me?”

Shyly, I glanced up at his face.

“It is neither a good time nor place to express what is in my heart, but if I may, for now, I should like to say . . . I admire you very much.”

I felt an irrepressible smile steal across my face and for once was bold enough to fix my eyes on his. What else was in his heart that he could not express?

A footman entered the room, breaking the spell cast between us. He hurried over to Mr. Walsh and handed him a folded paper.

“Sir, an express for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley has come.”

“Ah. Thank you, Harris. Pardon me, Miss Bennet.”

He rose and carried the note to Charles, who said, “It’s from Elizabeth, my dear.” Jane blanched but remained outwardly calm.

“I’m afraid we must take our leave,” she said, rising. “I hate to curtail the pleasures of our evening, but family matters summon us home.”

“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Walsh said, “I do hope your child is well.”

“Perfectly so, ma’am. It is nothing to do with David. Thank you most heartily for a pleasant day and evening.”

The others had seen the message delivered and heard that we must depart. “Oh, mightn’t we stay for more dancing?” Kitty said to Jane.

Mr. Carstairs stepped in. “Another time, Miss Kitty. We will have many other opportunities.” Kitty clamped her mouth shut, thank goodness, and simply bade him good night.

We gathered wraps and reticules and waited outside for the chaise. “Would you like to ride with the ladies, Bingley?” Mr. Walsh asked. “I can ride your mount over tomorrow if you prefer.”

Not until then did I understand he wouldn’t be returning to High Tor with us. I had assumed he would be riding alongside Charles, as he had done that morning. I recalled now that there had been a bag strapped to the top of the chaise. My tranquility was shattered. When would I see him again?

Charles declined his offer, no doubt preferring to be anywhere other than in the carriage with the ladies. Due to Mrs. Ashton’s presence, there would be no opportunity to speculate as to the contents of Lizzy’s message.

“Kitty,” Jane said, “you will ride in the chaise with us.” Her tone brooked no argument, and for once, Kitty complied without a fuss.

Mr. Walsh had disappeared, and so I shook hands with his mother. “It was most kind of you to invite us, ma’am. Thank you.”

She enfolded my hand in both of hers. “Everything my son told me of you is true, Miss Bennet. I am hopeful of our seeing a great deal more of each other.”

Everything? More astonishment. “I hope so, too.”
Should I have said that? For what, precisely, am I hoping?

We were waiting now only to say good night to our host, who at last dashed toward us carrying a book. The one he promised to lend me, I thought.

“Will you wait a moment, Miss Bennet?” he said after bidding everyone else adieu. His mother, I noticed, had unobtrusively withdrawn into the house, taking Mr. Carstairs with her. I could see Kitty ogling us from the carriage, and perhaps Mr. Walsh saw too. He touched my arm, drawing me into the shadows, where we couldn’t be observed by anybody. “Here is my copy of
Clarissa
. After you’ve had time to read it, will you share your views with me?”

“Thank you, sir. I’m not shy when it comes to offering my opinion.”

He laughed quietly, handing me the volume. I cradled it with one arm, and we both walked toward the chaise. When he held out his hand to help me up the steps, I clung to it.

I was lost.

I
do hope your letter does not carry bad news,” Mrs. Ashton said. Her tone invited the sharing of secrets. Jane quelled her curiosity, at least for the present, by simply saying, “Indeed.”

We were quiet during the ride, and my mind was left to roam free over all that had transpired today. Mrs. Walsh’s kindness, and the implication that her son had told her more about me than the simple fact of my proficiency at the pianoforte. I could not help wondering what else he might have said. He had singled me out during the walk about the grounds, and even though he danced with Kitty and not me, he had sat beside me afterward and made that thrilling revelation.

He called me Mary. Twice. I heard his voice in my head, and I wished he’d said my name a dozen times. I should have protested by saying I hadn’t given him leave to call me by my Christian name. But he did it in such a tender way—and not within the others’ hearing—that I could not be affronted.

I knew I was in a fair way to risking my heart and should flee back to Longbourn. I should beg Jane to allow me to leave immediately before anything else happened. From my knowledge of these matters, after years of hearing my sisters speak of such things, it was possible that Mr. Walsh’s declaration was leading up to a proposal of marriage. I’d always believed I would remain a spinster. I would disappoint as a wife. I had not the easy compliance, the ability to defer to a husband, and worst of all, I lacked beauty, conduct, and, at times, even common sense. But Jane said I had changed. Truly, I valued her opinion above that of anyone else.

From Kitty’s manner and countenance, her anger with me was obvious. She viewed Mr. Walsh as her suitor, and perhaps my whole family felt the same. Was I willing to risk their censure by stealing Kitty’s beau? I knew my parents—my mother at least—had every expectation of my remaining at home and caring for her and my father as they grew old. Mama neither hoped for nor anticipated a marriage for me. Nothing about a union between Henry Walsh and me would sit well with her.

Still in a quandary about what to do when we arrived at High Tor, thoughts of the letter nevertheless distracted me from my own dilemma. Jane and Charles and Kitty and I congregated in the library. Charles poured himself a brandy and offered sherry to the ladies, but we all declined. He handed Jane the letter and said, “My dear, you should be the one to read it.”

My sister broke the wax seal and studied the missive for a moment before reading it out loud:

21 March

Pemberley

Dear Jane,

Do not be alarmed. We are all well.

This letter is to inform you that my husband arrived in Newcastle yesterday. After making inquiries, he was able to ascertain that Wickham had sold his commission and left town. Nobody seems to know where he might have gone.