A Match for Mary Bennet (20 page)

Next morning after breakfast, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, robed in another elegant black gown, drifted into the music room and, finding it deserted, sat down to play. As Mary passed the room, she noted the slow and mournful rendition of “Peaty's Mill,” and she thought sadly of Georgiana's tune. She wondered if Caroline longed to be again at Norwich Mills. She made her way to what Bingley called his “unread library,” intending to try again the Radcliffe novel so many seemed to enjoy. As far as she had gotten, she found it only dark and unrealistic. She took the book to the window, intending to sit there and read, when she saw Jane leading Beth outside, with Annie attending to her small charge. Deciding that the day must be unseasonably fine, she found her shawl, took her book to the garden, and headed through the larches to her comfortable bench. She would leave the pianoforte to Caroline, to provide whatever solace it could bring her.

Mary's reading was pleasantly interrupted after a short time when Jane strolled up with Elizabeth, just come from Pemberley. “With Darcy away and Georgiana gone to town with her maid, the comforts of home draw me less and the company of my sisters more,” said Elizabeth, as she sat by Mary. “In fact, I came to urge you to join me or at least occupy your nearby cottage.”

Mary allowed that she had been considering the move but had not yet opened the subject to Mr. and Mrs. Bingley. Jane put her hand on Mary's as she too sat down. “Of course, you must do what is convenient for you, now that you have an important post in Kympton.”

“I would feel better with such a fine neighbour to visit often,” said Elizabeth. “The irony is that Georgiana planned her London visit just at this time so that Darcy, on finishing the harvest, could spend more time with me! Instead, this morning when the nurse came for little Charles, I wondered what to do for the day. I came here looking for you only to find a dour Caroline Fitzwilliam, seemingly bent on solitary mourning. I prefer to think along more hopeful lines for her lost brother. Jane supports my view.”

Mary closed the book, whose pleasure still escaped her, as they sat one on either side of her. She looked up thoughtfully. “Indeed, if the horse returned with money intact and the food and blanket missing, that does not suggest foul play. Does it not say that Sir Henry kept what he needed and sent the horse for help? And, as they say, no news is good news.”

“Let us hope so,” said Elizabeth, “for I have had no news from Darcy and Watts since they left.”

Jane looked up. “Did Watts go with them?”

“Yes. He has a brother living near Duxford, on the farm where they grew up. Mr. Darcy thought Watts might prevail upon his brother to help Fitzwilliam, since he knows the surroundings so well.” Elizabeth smoothed her gown, which a gentle wind had billowed. “Darcy said he planned only to take the others to Cambridge, where he had parted with Viscount Fitzwilliam, but he probably decided to help them search. I expected to see him home this morning. For their sakes, I rejoice, much as I miss him. An extra pair of eyes in the wooded areas must be welcomed.”

“Do not say so to Bingley, I pray you,” said Jane. “How he wanted to join them! But the Colonel declared Bingley must stay with Caroline, as he had entrusted her to him.”

Elizabeth gave her a knowing smile. “It is fortunate that you have so fine a reason to welcome her!”

Jane started as if to chide Elizabeth, paused, and simply returned her smile. Then she pointed out the currant vines at the edge of the circle of larches that surrounded them. “Does this put you in mind of our little hermitage at Longbourn?”

Elizabeth looked all around her and nodded. “Do you plan to build a similar, small pavilion here?”

Mary also examined her surroundings and only then realized why she had come to feel the place so like home. In response to Elizabeth, Jane shrugged. “Mr. Bingley makes many plans, but I wait to see. From week to week this small, tree-ringed meadow changes from bower to cluster of benches to artificial pond to pagoda. When he finally decides, construction and planting will proceed apace, but I fear that until everyone he respects agrees on one plan, nothing will happen.” She leaned across Mary to face Elizabeth. “You of all people ought to understand, Lizzy. Is that not the way you have gowns made for yourself?”

Elizabeth laughed. “True, too true. I prefer having them made for my sisters. And sometimes”—she fixed a teasing scowl on Mary—“the gown is redesigned so that it is no longer fit to wear at court.”

Mary squirmed. “Oh, Lizzy, you know I will never have to appear at court, and bare shoulders do not suit me.” Lizzy begged to differ, proclaiming Mary too modest.

Jane pointed through the thin line of larches to the house where Caroline had come out to enjoy the sun, carrying a ball and leading Beth by the hand. “Beth's nursemaid has many helpers. I sometimes wonder why we need Annie.”

Mary watched idly as Caroline stooped over the little girl and whispered to her. They began to roll the ball back and forth between them. The two mothers exchanged experiences with nursemaids, and Elizabeth added, “Darcy tells me Charles needs a young nursemaid who will learn to love him and grow in loyalty as he grows. Then when he takes his place as master, she will become head housekeeper and look after his interests as her own. He expects Callie to become another Mrs. Reynolds.” She reached over Mary to take Jane's hand. “Let me warn you: if you have a boy, Darcy may advise Bingley the same. But like you, I prefer to keep my hand in this child-rearing business.”

“As Mama did with us,” Jane agreed. “Perhaps we will learn a greater appreciation of her lively interest in us as we watch our children grow.”

“If you are to follow her lead, you will soon be looking for a beau for your little one.” Lizzy turned her head toward Beth playing with Caroline.

Jane laughed heartily. “No, indeed I will not. At least, not at present.”

Mary discerned through the trees a bright finch that flew from a larch to a bush near the bow window where Beth ran after the ball. Suddenly the bird rose from the bush, thudded against the pane of the window, and dropped to the ground. The child forsook the ball beneath the window and scooted over to the fallen bird, stooping and reaching out. Caroline fairly screamed, “No, Beth! Do not touch! The bird is dead!” She reached Beth and pulled her away, retrieving the ball as well. “It is dirty too. Poor dead bird. Do not touch.”

Mary left her sisters and walked toward the bird, thinking it must need either help or burial. As she stood near the circle of trees, she was close enough to the two playing ball to hear Caroline appear to be coaching the child as they played, but she could hardly credit her own ears. What was Caroline telling Beth to say? Again ashamed at overhearing what was surely not meant for her ears, she resolved to forget. She stood hesitating, unwilling to make herself known to Caroline. Her eyes sought the bird she had come to help. That dazed finch fluttered, flew a zigzag pattern to the bush it had vacated, and rested on an outstretched twig. Beth saw and pointed. “Dead bird! Dead bird!”

“Well, not so dead after all,” said Caroline, laughing.

Bingley came from the carriage house, saw Jane, and strode through trees to her. At the sound of his voice, Beth spied the little group and ran to them. “Mama! Papa! I saw the dead bird fly!” Mary followed the child back and retrieved the book she had left on the bench, making room for Bingley, but he declined to sit, as he picked up his daughter.

Elizabeth sighed. “When will little Charles become so chatty? He is almost a year now. Shouldn't he be saying more than ‘Mama,' ‘Papa,' and ‘no'? He walks, runs, and frightens me at his wish to clamber up stairs alone, but he remains a little man of few words.”

“Beth started talking at about ten months I believe,” Bingley boasted.

Jane hastened to add, “But she did not walk until a full fourteen months. I believe girls are often faster at talking than boys are.”

Bingley put in, “They continue to out talk us all their lives.”

Jane moved next to Lizzy and put a hand on her arm. “You know we have no experience with little boys. You must be our patient guide in raising them.”

Beth squirmed out of Bingley's grasp and ran to Jane, who took her hand and cued her to greet her aunts. She dutifully curtsied to Elizabeth, deftly, since one hand was steadied by an attentive Jane, and she said, “Aunt 'Liza”; she repeated the performance to Mary, who listened carefully to her greeting and answered her, smiling. Beth pointed toward the house where Caroline still sat observing the finch flitting from branch to branch. “Dead bird,” Beth pointed.

Bingley, amused, said, “Not so dead, Beth. He can fly; he is not dead.”

Beth repeated, “Not dead,” and asked, “then what?” She raised her chin importantly.

Bingley again picked her up. “Why, the bird is alive, like we are.” Beth turned to Jane, who carefully formed the word “alive.” Bingley looked over at his sister and frowned as he remarked to Jane, “Caroline has yet another black gown. I do not remember her having even one.”

Jane nodded. “Her attire of mourning bodes the worst. Did you find Colonel Fitzwilliam talking so fearfully of his brother?”

“No indeed. He said that the way of the great stallion's return suggested that Henry had sent Gallant for help. He was beginning to regret starting out at once, without the aid of the horse, which was spent. But he spoke as if sure of finding him alive.”

“Alive,” echoed Beth.

Elizabeth rose from the bench in acceptance of Jane's offer of a light repast before preparing to leave for Pemberley. “Then let us hope that Caroline may catch her husband's optimism. I pity any wife who cannot share her husband's feelings.” Mary too had compassion for Caroline, and she had greater reason.

Mary sent some of her things in Elizabeth's carriage as her pledge toward moving to the cottage as soon as may be. She readied a few parcels to send with Shepard when he came for her on Wednesday, and then she spent two days assembling the rest of her things and setting Jane's guest room in order with Sarah's help. Early on Saturday, she took leave of Bingley, Jane, and Beth; and when she spoke to Caroline, the worried wife graciously said she understood Elizabeth's need for a family member with her husband away. Mary, sure of the familiar way to Pemberley, refused Jane's kind offer to send Sarah with her. Then Mary loaded Grey Dawn with what she could reasonably carry, leaving her trunk with Jane, who would transport it to Pemberley after Sunday service at Lambton.

On the rather lengthy ride to Lambton, Mary already missed gentle Jane, amiable Bingley, and amusing Beth. Consequently, she reviewed all her reasons for moving. She hoped that Caroline could settle in better with no other guest in the way. She also knew that, with Watts gone to help Darcy and the Colonel, it would fall to Mr. Shepard to come for her every Wednesday afternoon, and this she was glad to avoid. Elizabeth must rely on him greatly in Darcy's absence, especially if harvest was not completed. And of course, Caroline spoke truly that Elizabeth may need a family presence other than baby Charles, who could distract her from her worries but could not converse or sympathize.

At Lambton, the ostler took her horse while she entered the inn for refreshment. She was served a plate of an egg dish left from breakfast and found it most satisfying. She asked the innkeeper what was in it, thinking to prepare herself for life on her own, never dreaming that the cottage would come with servants. He replied that the concoction was simplicity itself: “Just a few eggs, salt and pepper, some fried bacon, and a dollop of cream.” After asking him to repeat it slowly with directions, she felt sure that she could manage it herself, and she thanked him.

Elizabeth welcomed her warmly at Pemberley, begging her to stay in her former room, but Mary hesitated. “I do not wish to unpack twice, but if I may, I will stay the night and assemble my things in the morning.”

“But Tom and Betsy may not return for weeks. They worked so hard readying the cottage that I hadn't the heart to refuse their request to visit their former neighbours in Devonshire. With no servants at all you cannot possibly stay there!” Elizabeth directed Polly to take Mary's small pack of her night's needs to her room, and they followed the maid to Mary's familiar room across from the ballroom.

Mary, amazed that she would have such capable help, still wished to try out her new independence, and she assured Elizabeth that she would enter the cottage on the morrow but would visit everyday after breakfast. She did not mind being alone, and she promised to bolt the cottage door at night, lest any animals should wander in from the woods. Elizabeth sighed and accepted the arrangements.

Next morning, Mary rode over to Kympton to play for the service, and as soon as she returned, she took what possessions she could carry on Grey Dawn to her cottage while Elizabeth and her maid attended the Lambton service. Mr. Watts's boy Bill took the horse to the stable and Mary stood before the handsome cottage, admiring two sculptured yews that stood on both sides of the entrance, almost as sentinels. Entering, she relaxed completely in its homelike, plain loveliness. She glanced into the large parlours on each side of the small entryway, one bright with sun and the westerly one dimmer. On the first floor, she quickly chose one of the two bedchambers, both of which gave a splendid view of the gardens. Once settled, she went down to find the kitchen. After all, she had a recipe to try, and Elizabeth had given her eggs and a rasher when she had requested them. She found wood ready in the stove, and with a little difficulty and the assistance of several matches and twigs, she lit it, sure that the principal task was now done. She spent a time searching for knives, tongs, and a griddle. She replaced the grate over the fire and sliced a few bacon pieces from the rasher. Though she judged them thicker than slices she had seen, she did manage to fry them on the grill to her satisfaction. With a towel over the iron handle, she pulled the griddle from the fire, and with tongs, she removed the bacon slices onto the hard and scratched surface of the clean wooden table. She cut them in pieces as small as those she remembered from the inn and breathed a sigh of relief. Cooking involved more work than she had imagined, but the innkeeper had told her the first steps would be the hard part. She looked again at the fire, still burning steadily, and took the short walk to the dairy house where a maid happily supplied her with cream in a pitcher. She returned with a strong sense of adventure about making her very first meal. She found a bowl in the scullery, cracked two eggs into it with the bacon pieces and some of the cream, and mixed them all well. Then, she remembered the salt and pepper. She found some salt near the stove but no pepper mill. Not knowing the amount, she sprinkled what she considered a small amount into the mixture and stirred again. She added more in place of the missing pepper, and stirred it up again. Then she took a pan from where it hung on the wall, poured into it all the contents of the bowl, and put the pan on the grill. At this point, something went awry. Perhaps the stove fire had risen in heat, but quite soon, she removed the pan again and viewed the concoction. She scooped the top of it onto her plate and then tried to scrape the browned part from the bottom of the pan. She did not succeed as well as she would like, but finally judged it satisfactory, thinking she could at least use it again sometime as it was. Then she remembered to close the draft so the fire would die in the stove, and she sat down to sample what she had saved of her meal. She found it much saltier than what she had tasted at the inn. Next time, she would not be so liberal with the salt. She ate it, proclaimed it just edible, and prepared to hurry to Pemberley. But first, she had to down two glasses of water as antidote for the salt she had consumed. She noted that, when she returned, she would have to replenish the kitchen's supply of water. Perhaps Lizzy could let her have some from the well-house near Pemberley's kitchen. On the whole, Mary decided that she had never sufficiently appreciated the cook.

At the cottage door, she found Jane and Bingley, and saw Mr. Webster hefting her trunk from the ledge behind the carriage. He and Bingley insisted on putting it inside for her, wherever she wanted it. As they went upstairs to follow her directions, she turned to hug Jane, who whispered, “Let us visit here awhile, Mary. Darcy is home and planning to leave again. Let us allow Elizabeth some time with him.”

Mary readily complied, even as she apologised for the nasty odour from her kitchen. When she explained her experience at cooking, Jane understood. “Perhaps Mama should not have prided herself on keeping us from kitchen duties, since she could not have foreseen that we would all be blessed with a cook. But I am certain you will succeed in time.”

Bingley returned to them, and Mr. Webster took the carriage to Pemberley's carriage house, while Jane and Bingley toured the cottage and visited awhile in Mary's sunny parlour. “It seems a fine house for you,” Bingley observed, “but where is the library?”

Mary laughed. “I am afraid that is at Pemberley for now, though I dream of finding a circulating library. Imagine, me being a renter of books! Someday, I must also learn from Betsy how to cook.” And she revealed to Bingley her first disaster which he could, of course, smell even from the parlour. As they laughed together about that difficulty, Mary found herself wondering how Lydia fared and whether Wickham furnished help to supply for her inadequacies. She worried about young Lydia, even as she appreciated the lesson on avoiding improvident husbands, such as Stilton.

When the three of them went to Pemberley for dinner, Elizabeth smiled her gratitude at Jane for allowing her the morning. Darcy told them his news, or lack of it, concerning his quest. “We rode with Fitzwilliam the whole likely route from Cambridge to Norwich Mills but saw no sign of Sir Henry. The Colonel exchanged his horse for Sir Henry's there, bade his servant stay and rest, and loaded up with food and a packet of healing herbs such as he had used in battle. We hope the horse may lead him to his master.”

Bingley registered some doubt of that. “A dog may be more helpful. I have never known a horse that willingly returns to an area of disaster. But Gallant may indicate being near it by a display of skittishness.” Worry showed in Bingley's usually happy countenance. “I expect this news will not greatly please Caroline. She already seems to fear the worst.”

Mary could not help seeing how tired Darcy looked. “I am sorry your task proves to be greater than you anticipated, Mr. Darcy. I pray you are not terribly discouraged.”

“No, not at all. But we must find him soon because whatever supplies he had must have given out. You are probably right about horses in general, Bingley. If only this one may be an exception. It is our best hope.”

Jane also remarked Darcy's tired look. “Will you stay awhile and rest, Mr. Darcy?”

“Watts asked for a day with his wife and son, as he means to give young Bill some directions about work around the stables. At any rate, our horses must rest tonight. We leave tomorrow early. With Fitzwilliam's servant not returning, we will be needed to provide some help. The Colonel, who seems to know that his horse and his servant must rest, gives no thought to his own rest. I fear he may come to harm or perish of fatigue.” Darcy smiled at Lizzy, who regarded him as if she thought he too might perish of fatigue. He tried to hearten her. “We established a kind of outpost at George Watts's farm, in the barn, and he agreed to be there at sundown tomorrow. Even if he finds Sir Henry, how can he move him without help? We may even need a waggon if the Viscount is injured. Watts will bring an extra horse for his brother George, whose plough horses do not manage the wood paths well. We are convinced that the forest area and fens must be explored, since the roads showed no trace of him.” Darcy put one arm around Elizabeth, who could hardly take her eyes from him.

Elizabeth spoke one of her many worries. “If the horse cannot lead you to him, what else can you do?”

“Explore every wooded area between Cambridge and Norfolk, unless you can suggest a better plan.”

Elizabeth could not. Mary helped herself to yet another glass of water from the table pitcher, and when Darcy turned to ask if she had any suggestions, Mary spoke the one thing on her mind since her salty breakfast. “He would need water even more than food, I imagine. If there are fens, will there not be running water in those woods?”

Darcy frowned, trying to remember. Elizabeth only then noticed Mary's extraordinary thirst and asked what had got into her. Mary admitted her folly in thinking she could cook for herself, telling her what had happened when she tried out her one recipe. “I have much to learn.” Elizabeth firmly ordered her to take all her meals at Pemberley. Mary meekly submitted, saying, “Else there may be neither pans nor supplies when Betsy and Tom return!” She had at least made the worried couple laugh over her stupidity, which heartened her. She wished her ignorance might always spawn some relieving virtue.

Darcy even agreed to keep her suggestion in mind. “I will stop and listen for running water. It may well be that Sir Henry looked for water, even if he had to crawl to it.”

Mary reminded him, “Mr. Bingley seems to know about hunting dogs. Could yours not help?”

“Perhaps he could, if we were hunting the Colonel. But Fitz has never seen or smelled the Viscount, and we have no vestige of his clothing. It is a shame we did not think of it at Norwich Mills, but I fear Fitz would be at a loss just as we are.”

When the Bingleys took their leave, Mary asked to adjourn to the music room, recalling Georgiana's kindness in contriving to leave the much-parted couple alone. She played the liveliest tunes she knew, hoping to hearten Darcy in his difficulty, but as she played, she thought the music less lively than formerly, somewhat thin without Georgiana's part, and a bit depressing. She hoped it was only her own flagging spirits that made the music seem less sprightly. Mary spent some time on her Christmas music for church, and then she sought the library for a half-hour at Blake's poems. Finally, she repaired to the small parlour, lit a candle, and took out her sewing, conscious that, as a householder, she needed linens. Her glance rested on a particularly fine painting Georgiana had made for her, a copy of one of the Gainsborough paintings Darcy had purchased. Mary had declared it too beautiful for one who had no place to put it, but Georgiana, saying that she wished Mary to remember her, pressed it on her. Mary would now have a place for it. That loveliness would call Georgiana to mind whenever Mary entered her parlour. She did not work long and returned to the cottage in the gathering dusk, bearing the precious painting in the plain frame Mr. Shepard had fashioned for it. She felt blessed and grateful for all the good people she had come to know through her sisters.

Mr. Darcy and Watts left the next day early, taking blankets, a waggon, and an extra horse. As soon as he left, Elizabeth took on the quieter, more thoughtful mien which Mary had noted before. Still, Mary wished to hearten her. “Do not worry, Lizzy. I am sure Mr. Darcy will find the Viscount; he is so determined.”

Elizabeth sighed. “With all my heart I hope it is so, for he feels it most deeply. Yesterday he blamed himself cruelly for having hurried home after the funeral. I assured him that Sir Henry would not have allowed an escort at any rate, but he would not be consoled.”

Mary asked to spend time in Pemberley's chapel to pray for his and Colonel Fitzwilliam's success, and Elizabeth gladly joined her. “It is a capital idea, Mary. Perhaps I will not feel so helpless.”

On Wednesday, after her practise with the choir girls, Mary returned to Pemberley for a late dinner and was surprised to find Mr. Darcy at table. Elated at first, thinking his quest must be over, she looked again at his crestfallen demeanor as he picked at his food, and she knew it was not so. She wanted desperately to ask what was wrong, but at the same time, she feared the worst and did not wish to hear it or to make him say it. Elizabeth, who looked no less stricken, answered her question as if it had been written on her face. “Oh, Mary, Colonel Fitzwilliam did not return to the farm as planned; neither Monday nor Tuesday at sundown did he come. They have scoured the forest paths fruitlessly, and now they have two to search for.” Elizabeth sounded as if she might cry, but she swallowed and went on in a firmer voice. “Darcy asks me to inform Bingley, so that Caroline may know the state of things. And since now Fitz may be of some help, he will return tomorrow with the dog.” She turned then to Darcy. “Have you hope still?”