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36

Falling Down

In her mind,
she saw him falling – falling slowly, as if in a dream, his features contorted
in terror. “Michael, be careful!” Mary shouted as she wheeled in his direction.
But it was too late; he had already lost his grip. His small body came tumbling
down from a height of fifteen feet, brutally striking two lower branches and
then falling lifelessly to the ground with a muffled thud.

For a moment,
Mary could do nothing but stare in horror. Her brain rejected what she saw, her
feet refused to move, and her voice caught in her throat. Then, as if someone
had pushed her from behind, she lurched forward, running toward the boy’s
crumpled form.

Michael lay
still as a corpse, and Mary felt the press of what seemed like bands of iron
tightening round her chest. She dropped to her knees beside the boy, and for a
long, horrifying minute feared there was no breath left in his body. Taking up
his limp hand, she rubbed it and murmured his name again and again, all the
while searching for some proof that life persisted.

“He is dead!”
cried Gwendolyn as she and her sister arrived on the scene. “Our brother is
dead!”

“No!” Mary
assured her. “He still breathes, but we must get help for him at once. Now
listen to me, Gwen. Hurry to the stables and send someone for the surgeon
immediately. Can you do that?” Mary directed a steadying look at the girl, who
then nodded and dashed off. “Grace, you had better go get your father.”

The last
instruction was entirely unnecessary, however, for Mr. Farnsworth was already
halfway across the lawn, his attention having been drawn by the commotion.
“Good God! What has happened?” he demanded as he flew to the spot. The big man
knelt and at once caught his little son up in his arms.

“He fell,” said
Mary, knowing the words to be both needless and woefully inadequate to describe
the catastrophe. “I am so very sorry, Mr. Farnsworth.”

“What am I to
do now? Is there no one to help me?” Mr. Farnsworth cried out as if all his own
strength were gone.

The look of
anguish on his face was more than Mary could bear. “I have sent for the
surgeon. He will know what to do. In the meantime, let us take Michael into the
house, perhaps to one of the small parlors on the main floor.”

“Yes,” he
agreed. “Yes, of course. I must get him inside.”

“Very gently
now,” Mary added in a soothing tone as Mr. Farnsworth got to his feet with his
son cradled against his body.

Carefully, they
made their way back toward the house, Mary at Mr. Farnsworth’s side with one
hand at his back, ushering him forward, and the other resting gently on
Michael’s head. Miss Farnsworth and some of the houseguests converged on them
to lend their help or hysteria, according to their natural abilities, and Mary
soon found herself crowded out by the encircling throng. Mr. Farnsworth paid no
attention to anyone. He continued on as if in a daze, his countenance ashen and
drawn.

Left behind and
thus prevented from ministering to Michael, Mary turned her efforts to his
sisters. Grace, who had trailed after, softly sobbing, Mary gathered into a
tight embrace at once. Gwendolyn presently came hurrying back from the
direction of the stables.

“Has someone
already gone for the surgeon?” Mary asked her.

“Yes, William
went at once. When I told him what had happened, he did not even take time to
saddle a horse – just put a bridle on Jasper, flung himself on his back, and
galloped off for town. Will Michael be all right, Miss?”

“We must pray
that he is. We must all pray very diligently.”

It was with
much perturbation of spirit that Mary returned to the nursery. She did her best
to console the girls, and yet her thoughts were elsewhere, in a different part
of the house with Michael and his father. If only she had paid more attention,
they might not be suffering now! If only she had been more devoted to her duty
instead of worrying about her own trivial problems, that dear boy might still
be well and happy. Oh, what she would give to see him scampering up the stairs
that moment, to hear his mischievous laughter echoing in the corridor! Would
that sweet music ever come to her ears again?

From the
window, Mary observed the surgeon’s arrival barely twenty minutes after the
accident. Then later, when she judged he would have had time to render some
kind of opinion in the case, she left Gwendolyn and Grace, quietly settled with
their books, and ventured down the back stairs to see what could be learnt by
discreet enquiry.

Mary emerged
noiselessly into the service passageway on the main level and crept toward the
entry hall, hoping to meet with an opportunity for news there. Although she
would not have dreamt of imposing on Mr. Farnsworth at such a time, she thought
she might find something out from his sister or one of the servants. Instead,
she overheard a conversation that stopped her in her tracks, one going forward
between two ladies – Miss Hawkins and an older woman, soon discovered to be her
aunt, Mrs. Candleford. Although they were only a few feet away from Mary, with
their backs to her, they had obviously not detected her presence just behind
the protruding wall.

“The outlook
seems very grim,” said Miss Hawkins in low tones. “The surgeon thinks that even
if the child lives, he will likely never be quite right again.”

“In what way?”
asked Mrs. Candleford, leaning a little closer.

“No one can say
when the brain has been affected. He could be weak in the head, unable to walk,
or possibly without sense or feeling altogether.”

“The boy is his
father’s heir too. If he were to die…”

“Hush, Aunt! We
must trust it will not come to that!”

“Do not pretend
to be so shocked, my dear. When something like this occurs, the mind leaps
ahead to the obvious conclusion unbidden. What is a tragedy for one person
often becomes an opportunity for another.”

“I daresay you
are right, and yet it is far too soon to be making plans of that sort. I am not
Mrs. Farnsworth yet, you know.”

“Soon you will
be, however, and perhaps now
your
son… Well, you understand me.”

“Yes, Auntie, I
take your meaning, but I shall not spend my time spinning a future from what
may never be. For now, I must be content with what is within my control. And
you can be sure that when I am lady of this house, there will be many changes
made. The first order of business will be to find a proper boarding school for
the two daughters. I will not have them always underfoot.”

“Ah, and what
of the governess? Your future husband may be well satisfied with the current
arrangement.”

“He may have
been in the past, but everything is altered now. After all, this accident is
entirely that incompetent governess’s fault. If Mr. Farnsworth cannot see it
for himself, than I will use my influence to make sure he comes to that
conclusion in the end. Once the governess is gone, it is only a small step to
the idea of boarding school for the girls, and for the boy as well, of course…
if he lives.”

“I see what you
mean, my dear June. You shall make quick work of it too. I would wager that
before long you shall be leading the old codger about by the nose and have him
thanking you for it into the bargain.”

Miss Hawkins
laughed behind her gloved hand. “Aunt, you really mustn’t say such things. You
shall make me sound quite heartless, or calculating at the very least.”

“Nothing of the
sort, my dear! It is simply the natural order of things. A man likes to think
he is having his own way, but any woman worth her salt will learn to master him
without him even being aware of it. So it was with your uncle, may God rest his
soul, and your Mr. Farnsworth will be no different. I assure you he will be
happier in the end being told what to do, as long as you let it seem that it
was all his own idea.”

Mary slipped
back down the corridor. She had got what she came for… and far more. Her own
future at Netherfield looked bleak, and yet it was for little Michael that her
heart bled – Michael and his poor father.
A grim outlook… never right again,
even if he lives
, which he quite possibly would not, according to what she
had overheard.

The heavy bands
about Mary’s chest constricted a few degrees tighter so that she found it
nearly impossible to breathe as she slowly climbed the stairs. She deserved to
lose her position even if Michael recovered. If, God forbid, he did not, she
deserved much worse.

37

Awaiting Word

An expectant
hush had descended on the whole house immediately after Michael’s accident, and
it deepened into a deathly stillness the following day after most of the
guests, by ones and twos, departed Netherfield. The party, which had been
intended to last a full week, clearly could not continue without its host, who
now had no thought for anything beyond his son.

Mr. Farnsworth
did not send for his daughters or for Mary, which was not surprising. Mary
would hardly have expected to hear from him unless it was to send her packing,
and she had very little idea what she would have said to him if she could. How
could she adequately apologize for what had happened? Nothing she might say
could possibly comfort a man in the depths of despair over his dying son.
Still, that is what she longed to be able to do – to lend some effectual aid or
comfort, to ease Mr. Farnsworth’s pain, and to tell him how very, very sorry
she was.

It seemed the
only service she could render him was to look after his daughters better than
she had his son, to keep them safe and console them in their distress. Even as
she did so, however, she reminded herself that she must soon be prepared to
give them up – give
all
of them up. That knowledge drove the knife a
little deeper.

She remained
closeted with Grace and Gwen all day, their single source of news coming from
the servants whose duties brought them to the nursery. The only information
they could convey, however, was that the surgeon had come and gone twice that
day. Finally, Mary determined to risk another foray downstairs, this time
making the head housekeeper her object. Mrs. Brand’s responsibilities gave her
access to every part of the estate, and not much escaped that lady’s notice. If
anybody beyond the family would know what was happening with Michael, it would be
Mrs. Brand.

Mary found her
in her workroom and closed the door behind her.

Mrs. Brand came
round from behind her table and held her hands out, saying, “Oh, my dear girl,
what you must be suffering!”

“Say nothing of
that,” answered Mary, taking both Mrs. Brand’s proffered hands for a moment.
“It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it. What grieves me is that
others are suffering for my sins.”

“Now, now,
Miss, you mustn’t take on so. ‘Tis a hard blow and no denying. I do not see as
how you could have prevented it, though. Boys will climb trees and sometimes
they fall is all.”

“You are too
kind, Mrs. Brand, but I am prepared to take the blame. My only worry now is for
the boy. How does he do? What have you heard? I must know, although I dread it
at the same time.”

“Sit down, my
dear, and take some tea with me. It will do us both good.” The housekeeper
directed Mary to a straight-backed chair and poured them each a cup. “I will
tell you what little I know, which is this. The poor boy is alive but still out
of his senses. The surgeon do say it could go either way. He may yet recover
with most of his faculties intact, or… or he may not. There simply be no way of
knowing yet.”

“Surely there
must be something the doctor can do for him, something that should be
attempted. We cannot sit idly by, waiting for Michael to die!”

“Depend on it,
Miss Bennet. Everything that can be done for the lad has been done. The master
will have seen to that. The rest is in the Lord’s hands, I reckon, so there’s
no use making yourself ill by fretting.”

They sat
quietly together a few minutes, Mary pondering what she had learnt thus far
before addressing her other pressing question. “Mrs. Brand,” she began
presently. “Tell me about Mr. Farnsworth. How is he bearing up?”

Mrs. Brand frowned
and shook her head. “I must say the master looks very bad to me, Miss. In one
of the blackest moods I ever did see, and I have been with him nigh on fifteen
years now. He refuses to leave the parlor where they have Michael laid out, not
for food nor rest, and I hardly know as to which he will wear out first –
himself or the patch of carpet where he paces up and down.”

Mary stayed
another ten minutes out of sheer politeness, but she was not fit company for
anyone. Although she had entertained no very high hopes that it could be
otherwise, the housekeeper’s report had confirmed Mary’s fears. Michael and his
father were suffering most cruelly, and there was nothing she or anybody else
could do about it.

It was with a
heavy heart that Mary began ascending the stairs again, paying a self-imposed
penance with each step upward by listening to the accuser’s measured words,
beating in time to her footfalls. “How… could… you… have… been… so… careless?”
he whispered in her ear as she climbed. Mary submitted to the punishment as
just and right. “Look… what… your… incompetence… has… wrought. Have… you… not…
done… enough… harm?” She was completely in the prosecutor’s power now, and he
drove her on with another harsh word for every stair. “Leave… this… place… at…
once. No… one… wants… you… here. Not… after… what… you… have… done.”

When Mary at
last came out of the stairs into the passageway, she looked about herself in
confusion. Something was not right. The corridor was too narrow and the ceiling
too low. Things were familiar, and yet not quite as they should be. Then she
realized her mistake; in her distracted state of mind, she had come up one
floor too far and emerged in the servants’ quarters – the
male
servants’
quarters. Quickly spinning round to return the way she had come, she ran
straight into Clinton.

“Well, well,
what have we here?” he said in a taunting voice.

“Excuse me,”
said Mary, moving to slip by him.

He blocked her
way with his long arm. “Goin’ so soon, Miss Bennet? Why, I won’t hear of it.”

“I am sorry to
have bothered you, Clinton. I came this way by mistake. Now please let me
pass.”

“No need to
pretend with me, you know. I shouldn’t tell a soul you come to visit ole Clinton.” With his left hand already resting on the wall in front of Mary, he then brought
the right up behind to block any retreat. “You are in enough trouble as it is,
from what I hear.”

She was
effectively trapped against the wall with the large man looming over her.

“No need to be
shy,” he continued. “Just give us a little kiss.” Suddenly forcing his body
against Mary, Clinton at the same time dropped his mouth over hers.

Mary struggled
against him, but she was no match for his superior strength. And she had no air
in her lungs with which to scream for help; his weight had pressed it from her.

“’Tain’t no use
fighting, Mary,” he grunted when he finally finished with what he had termed a
kiss.

Her mouth
momentarily free, Mary gulped for air and tried to scream. Nothing more than a
plaintive squeak emerged.

“I shall have
you now, and nothin’ you can do about it.” Clinton covered her mouth with his
hand and began dragging her through the nearest doorway.

“What’s this
then?” boomed out a male voice from the far end of the corridor.

Clinton’s grasp faltered and Mary broke free. She fled without a backward glance and flew
down the stairs, her heart pounding in her ears. On she ran, not daring to
slacken her pace until she was secure in her own bedchamber with the door
barricaded. Adding her own weight to the heavy chair she had used, Mary fought
to catch her breath as her mind raced for what to do next.

Was she safe
now or would Clinton risk coming after her again? Would his actions be
reported, whereupon Clinton would rightfully be turned from the house? Or had
it appeared to the witness that she was just as much to blame? She could inform
on the unsavory incident herself. But to whom could she go, especially with the
household still reeling from the shock of Michael’s accident? No. No one could
be expected to worry themselves about the governess’s complaint at such a time,
or to take seriously her wild tale of a footman’s peccadillo.

There was only
one thing to do, much as it pained Mary to admit it.