The Clergyman's Wife

by Molly Greeley

  Keeping the cradle so near our bed has required quiet and stillness from us both at night, a circumstance that I know has been frustrating for my husband—though he has borne it with surprising grace, his attentions infrequent. It is his right to make decisions regarding our child, and to make demands upon my person, yet he has yielded to my insistence that Louisa remain with me while she was still so unsettled at night. I cannot deny him now, when his request is so reasonable.

  “Yes, of course. Tomorrow,” I say. My fingernails are blunt, but still they hurt where they press into the flesh of my palms.

  William’s cheeks are rosy and his mouth is pursed into a small, contented smile.

  I GO UP to bed before William and ready myself for sleep, moving with the quiet to which I have become accustomed. Then I slip beneath the coverlet and lie motionless, listening to the wind outside.

  It seems impossible that Louisa is mature enough to sleep in a room alone, this tiny being who was, not long ago, so utterly dependent upon me. I ought to be rejoicing; this is, after all, good and natural. And yet I feel I have been hollowed out, a tree ready to fall. I raise myself up on my elbow and peer over the side of the cradle; in the darkness, I can just make out the curve of her cheek and the splay of her fingers. Her mouth is open, her eyes tightly closed. I can hear her breathing.

  My fingertips tingle with the urge to touch her, but instead I lie back.

  I HAVE JUST finished dressing Louisa when I hear William’s voice from the entry hall. I lift our daughter and move to the top of the stairs, listening.

  “. . . air the room,” he is saying, “and make certain it is ready for the baby to occupy tonight.”

  Louisa is squirming in my arms, and I descend the stairs, rounding the bend just in time to see Mrs. Baxter bob a curtsy and say, “Yes, Mr. Collins.”

  William sees me and smiles widely. “I have just asked Mrs. Baxter to ready the nursery,” he says.

  “So I heard.” Louisa makes a noise of protest, and I realize my arms have tightened around her.

  “All will be ready before this evening,” William says. He reaches out and takes my hand, bowing over it and pressing a damp kiss to its back. Then he steps away, flushed and pleased looking. “What are your plans for today, my dear?”

  I have no plans, as such, but the house feels suddenly desperately confining. My tongue shows a sudden talent for improvisation.

  “I had thought to call upon Mr. Travis,” I say, and in an instant the idea of doing so has gripped me, and I am at once eager to head out and appalled by my own eagerness. “I’d like to see how his father is faring, and to thank him for his efforts with the roses.”

  William frowns. “My dear Charlotte—I am sure the honor of being singled out by her ladyship is thanks enough.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I say. “But I would like to thank him, nonetheless.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Baxter’s quick, surprised glance, before she turns her eyes docilely downward once again. William looks as if he would like to protest further, but then he glances at Louisa, who has two fingers in her mouth and her eyes fixed on the view through the window behind him. Rather tentatively, he reaches out, touching our daughter’s head as though offering a benediction. After a moment, he pats her gently, twice, and steps aside.

  Chapter Nine

  Martha is needed to help Mrs. Baxter with the laundry, and so, as I take the path out of the woods and across a broad meadow, my decision to call at the Travis farm feels rather rash. Already, my arms are beginning to ache from the combined weight of Louisa and the basket I carry; my chemise clings damply to my back and under my breasts. Louisa gazes about us eagerly, watching the progress of small white butterflies moving among the patches of cow parsley and early purple orchids, startling at the high-above cry of a hunting bird.

  By the time I crest the hill above the farm, my breaths are coming so close together that there is hardly any time between one and the next, and I stop, feeling the furious thumping of my heart, and look down at the fields of early crops, neat rows of green in rich dark furrows, and beside them wide fenced pasture. There are a few small, scattered outbuildings, and then the stone cottage, well thatched and surrounded by gardens. Sheep graze in the pasture with their young, and I remember Mr. Travis’s saying, when he first came about the roses, that it was nearly time for lambing.

  At the thought of Mr. Travis my heart, which had begun to slow to a healthier rhythm, suddenly jerks under my ribs; I heft Louisa and make my way down the hill so quickly that we nearly go tumbling to the bottom. A bean of a boy, of perhaps thirteen, stops and stares openly at me as he exits the barn. I nod to him but do not call a greeting, for, to my chagrin, I cannot think of his name.

  At the cottage, the maid answers my knock; she looks startled to see me but takes the offering in my basket when I hold it out. Mr. Travis the son is in the fields, she says—disappointment trickles over me like the drip of cold rain from an eave, though of course, naturally, he would be at his work—and his father is in the back garden. She has a quick smile for Louisa but only civility for me, and as she leads me through a dim passageway toward the back of the house, she tells me that old Mr. Travis might be asleep.

  “In that case, I will not wake him,” I say, and she nods, looking dubious, but leaves me to it, though I can feel her stare; no doubt she is wondering why “Mrs. Parson” has chosen to come at last.

  The elder Mr. Travis is resting on a wooden bench in the back garden, his arms crossed and his face raised toward the sky. Small and knobbled, the sides of his face bristling with whiskers that shine silver in the light, he looks frail and almost fey. The bench sits at the edge of the path, and all around are flower beds, a riot of leaves and spring blossoms. Unlike the stately topiaries and the crisp clean lines of the beds at Rosings Park, the herbs and flowers here are densely planted and appear quite wild, in the way that always seems to indicate great skill and care on the gardener’s part. I do not notice the individual plants so much as the beautiful, carefully chaotic whole, the heavy, sweet scent of syringa like a blanket over the entire garden. I breathe in and out, my nerves steadied, and move around to the front of the bench where I can be seen.

  “Good day, sir,” I say, and old Mr. Travis gives himself a startled little shake, raising his great woolly brows. “I came to see how you are—”

  I stop speaking when I realize that he is ignoring me utterly. His eyes are fixed upon Louisa; he shifts with painful slowness onto his feet, then shuffles toward us. I hurry forward to meet him and he raises a finger and traces the curve of Louisa’s cheek. “What a little beauty,” he says, his voice a little too loud, and clucks at her, grinning with his few teeth. At his words, my breath leaves my body in a great rush.

  He backs up again, very carefully, and settles onto the bench, then gestures with a gnarled hand at the empty space beside him. I perch there, setting Louisa on the ground at our feet. She immediately begins a slow exploration of the garden on her hands and knees, old Mr. Travis’s eyes fixed on her with unwavering intensity.

  “Are you well?” I say, and he looks at me sideways, making a cup of his hand around his ear.

  “I hope you are well,” I say—I nearly shout—and he hums a distracted yes.

  “And—your son? I hope he is in good health?”

  “Oh, yes, Robby’s well.” Old Mr. Travis gestures toward Louisa. “I can just remember when he was as small as that one there.”

  I smile. “Was he an obedient child?”

  The old man releases a wheeze of a laugh. “Not a bit.”

  I laugh as well, and then the conversation dwindles, though I attempt, more than once, to engage him. But really, I cannot wish otherwise, for old Mr. Travis has his attention fixed utterly upon Louisa—he leans forward, the better to watch her, palms upon his knees, the spiderweb of lines on his face pulled tight as he smiles. Louisa pauses in her explorations before a towering syringa and looks up, up, up at it. Honeybees dart from bloss
om to blossom.

  “Your garden is so lovely, Mr. Travis,” I say.

  He looks around us as though assessing his own work. “It’s not so easy to keep up with as it was just a few years ago,” he says at last, chewing over each word slowly.

  “Your efforts are—well, the results are extraordinary. I have never seen a happier place.”

  Genuine pleasure fills his face, and I look down at my lap.

  HE INSISTS ON walking us to the front gate, and so we are making a slow progress around the side of the cottage when Mr. Travis finds us.

  “Young Henry told me he saw you arrive,” he says in greeting.

  I stolidly ignore the little burst of gladness under my breastbone. “I came to visit your father,” I say, nodding to the older man. “And to thank you.”

  “Thank me?”

  “Yes, of course.” To his father, I say, “Mr. Collins and I are greatly indebted to your son for his work in our garden.”

  Old Mr. Travis nods. “Robby’s a good lad,” he says. “A good lad.”

  Mr. Travis wears an odd grimace, as if torn between embarrassment and pleasure.

  “I left some of Mr. Collins’s honey with your maid,” I say. The jar, with its contents golden and stickily tempting, was the best offering I could think of quickly.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Travis says, and we stand looking at one another over the fence. He is dressed for work—his boots are filthy—and his hands, resting upon the fence rail, have dirt under their nails and embedded in the lines of his fingers. Though he is neither tall nor broad, his hands are large and square, his fingers too big for the rest of him. Dark hair curls along his wrists. They could never, I think with an odd spasm, be mistaken for the hands of a gentleman. I have not had occasion to really look at a farmer’s hands before; perhaps they are all like his, thick with muscle and roughly callused. I am at once fascinated and repulsed; I wonder—the thought songbird quick, though the shock of it lingers—how different they might feel to William’s soft palms. My mind fills with a low hum.

  Seeing the direction of my gaze, his hands curl into fists, before he unclenches them again with deliberate slowness. Disconcerted, I press my cheek against my daughter’s thin curls.

  Old Mr. Travis tickles Louisa under her chin, startling a high, happy sound from her.

  “Bring this little darling again soon,” he says.

  I promise to do so, and we say our good-byes.

  We have crested the hill when I hear running footsteps behind us, and Mr. Travis overtakes us moments later. “Mrs. Collins,” he says; he breathes hard and lifts his hat to cool his head. “I am sorry—I ought to have offered immediately—might I carry Miss Collins for you?”

  I blink away my startlement. “I—thank you.” Louisa has fallen asleep, her head heavy on my shoulder, but he takes her from me very gently, and she scarcely stirs.

  “She’s a hardy girl,” he says, quiet voiced.

  “That she is.”

  “It was kind of you to bring her—I have not seen my father so animated in a long while.”

  “Please—think nothing of it. In truth, she was . . . helpful to me.”

  He looks at me over Louisa’s head, lifts a brow. I strive for lightness. “I rather thought I would be . . . better at this,” I say. “It may surprise you to know that this—role—that being a clergyman’s wife—does not come naturally to me. It seems Louisa can make a useful bridge when I do not know what to say.”

  I cannot fathom what made me speak so, and fall silent.

  “Mrs. Collins,” Mr. Travis begins, but Louisa makes a keening noise of protest in her sleep, and he presses his lips closed, smiling at me above her head. We are silent the rest of the way to the parsonage, though from time to time he darts glances at me, quick as minnows; I know, because I am doing the same.

  When we reach the lane, I have to force myself to keep walking. Though there is no true impropriety, I suddenly feel that I cannot face William’s—or worse, Lady Catherine’s—seeing us walking together. But we reach the parsonage gate unobserved.

  “I can take her from here,” I say.

  “Of course.” Mr. Travis holds the back of Louisa’s head gently as he moves her between us; she tucks her face into the crook of my neck, and I put my hand up to her head as he takes his away. Our fingers brush, just briefly; Louisa grizzles against my shoulder; I make a shushing noise until she quiets.

  “Thank you,” I say, and he blinks as though he has been taken out of his thoughts.

  He touches his hat. “Entirely my pleasure, Mrs. Collins.”

  I pause before going through the gate. “Are there other members of the congregation, do you think, who might not need or—or want charity, but who might enjoy being called upon, now and again?”

  He is quiet for a moment, thinking. “Mrs. Fitzgibbon,” he says at last. “She is—”

  “A widow,” I say quickly, interrupting him in my eagerness to prove that I am not entirely ignorant of my husband’s congregation. Then I blush. “Forgive me, continue.”

  He laughs softly. “Yes, she is a widow, and childless. Her husband died before you came here, I think, but he was . . . not well liked. I do not know Mrs. Fitzgibbon well, myself, but she has always seemed rather solitary.”

  I nod. “Thank you.” And then, on impulse: “I was wondering—do you think your father would like a cutting from our roses?”

  A faint smile. “I’m sure he would. But it would be better to wait until autumn to take the cutting.”

  “Oh. I did not know.” I feel oddly rejected, my gladness dissipating.

  He bows and turns to make the walk back to his farm. But then he looks behind him again, at me. “May I say,” he says, “you are far more natural in your role than you give yourself credit for.”

  I hold Louisa tightly as I walk through the garden, and stand there in the sunlight a little while before going into the house.

  DESPITE MY MISGIVINGS, Louisa goes to sleep easily in the nursery. I leave the door open just a bit so that I might hear her if she cries out in the night. My fingers linger on the door frame, and I bend my head toward the door, listening—but there is only silence.

  At last, I turn away and walk the few steps down the hall to my own chamber, and leave that door ajar as well.

  I have just settled into bed when the door creaks open and William enters the room. I left no candle burning, and in the darkness he is but a shadowy figure, tall and heavy. I watch as he removes his coat but close my eyes when his fingers go to the fastenings on his shirt, its whiteness muted by the room’s shadows. There is the rustle of fabric as he undresses, and again as he dons his nightshirt, and then the mattress dips under his weight as he settles in beside me.

  We lie together for a moment in silence. He did not ask me anything about my day when we dined together this evening, instead talking at length about his labors in the garden and how greatly they tired him, and I think now, briefly, that William might drift off to sleep. But then he rolls over and puts one hand, just lightly, on my shoulder, the tips of his fingers touching my collarbone. I open my eyes. He is gazing at me, his face very close, and then he leans down and kisses my mouth. I feel the chapped skin of his lips and taste the sour tang of the tea he drank after dinner, as well as something else, a sickly-sweet flavor that is uniquely William. He rolls atop me, and his weight makes it hard to draw a full breath.

  I am quiet as he fumbles between us and squeeze my eyes closed when I feel the press of him against me. Then, for several minutes, there is nothing but sensation—his chin, sharp with a day’s worth of whiskers, abrading my own; the hot puff of his breath against my neck—and quiet sounds. The bed creaks along with his erratic movements; our bodies slap together, muffled only by our nightclothes, which are rucked up between us. Outside, crickets sing.

  When he is through I pull the quilt up to my chin. But sleep will not come; I stare into the darkness for several minutes, trying to relax my body and still my thoughts. I wonder
how Louisa is sleeping in the nursery.

  Then William’s voice drifts across the space between us, low and slurred as he nears sleep. “We might have made an heir for Longbourn just now. That would please Lady Catherine.” He brushes his knuckles along my arm, then rolls over. Moments later, he is snoring.

  I imagine myself rising, moving toward the washbasin. Scrubbing at the insides of my thighs with a damp cloth until they burn from the friction. But I do not. I shift uncomfortably away from the cooling damp that has spread across the sheet beneath me and wait for sleep to come.

  Chapter Ten

  Mrs. Fitzgibbon sets my usual cup before me at her scrubbed wood table. Made of china so delicate it is nearly translucent, the cup is patterned with ivy and filled with very weak tea. She told me during my first visit that it is the only remaining piece from a set that belonged to her mother, and it is much finer than the sturdy cups and saucers she has for everyday use. Though I am not prone to clumsiness, I am especially careful when I take tea here.

  Today I have brought Louisa with me, and the baby—now in short petticoats for several weeks—takes delight in exploring the cramped little room. When she finds Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s work basket, the elderly woman merely laughs and removes the packet of needles.

  I protest, reaching out to pick my daughter up. “Oh, no—she will make a mess of it.”

  “Thread can be untangled,” Mrs. Fitzgibbon says, and I subside, looking on as she watches Louisa, her smile deepening the wrinkles about her eyes and mouth. She is a wisp of a woman, with white hair like dandelion seeds and a bent and bony figure. She has been destitute since her husband’s death, living on what she grows in her kitchen garden and charity from Rosings Park. She has no cake to offer but pushes a plate of bread and preserves toward me with proud insistence.