The Clergyman's Wife

by Molly Greeley

  Then something inside of me gives a hard jerk, and I am suddenly up, opening the parlor door and rushing down the hallway until, somehow, I find myself in the garden. The wind is strong enough that it precludes any chance of hearing voices more than a few steps away, but I make my way toward the front gate, head bowed and arms folded across my ribs for warmth.

  They are standing before the roses, Mr. Travis and my husband. William has one hand pressed flat to the top of his head in an attempt to keep his hat in place; Mr. Travis has abandoned his hat altogether, and his hair blows comically about his head like tall grasses in a meadow. He is gesturing at the roses, but I cannot hear his words, the wind snatching them away before they can reach me, and William is turned away from me. I can feel the wind tearing at my hair, wrapping my skirt around my legs. I should feel ridiculous, out of doors without so much as a shawl, but Mr. Travis looks up and sees me. He stops talking and looks, just for the smallest moment—his mouth smiles, and his eyes, and I smile back. Then William says something and Mr. Travis turns his attention back to him.

  My skin is growing pebbled from the cold air, so I turn and walk away, suddenly hoping very much that William will not turn around. I do not want to hear his questions, or the inevitable scolding over my inadequate attire. I look back once; Mr. Travis seems absorbed by whatever William is saying, but he glances up at me, again just for a moment, and nods.

  “I . . . HEARD YOU speaking with Mr. Travis,” I say to William. We stand together in the entranceway, my back turned to him as he helps me on with my wrap. We are invited to a card party at Rosings Park, which William has been anticipating with pleasure for days. Colonel Fitzwilliam, another of Lady Catherine’s nephews, will be there, along with the lady to whom he has recently become engaged; my husband has been in a froth of curiosity ever since Lady Catherine mentioned the engagement a fortnight ago.

  William’s fingers still upon my shoulders. “Why, yes,” he says. “Mr. Travis did come today.”

  There is something odd about his voice. “Is anything the matter?”

  “No—no,” he says, and turns away to find his hat, but not before I have seen the redness of his complexion. “I wanted him to look at the roses and . . . he says the yellowing leaves are the result of overwatering.”

  I am puzzled. “That is a good thing, is it not? It is something you can correct?”

  “Yes, it is. But I am mortified that I have inadvertently caused such harm.”

  I place a hand on his forearm. “You did the right thing in asking for advice,” I say. “I am only sorry that I discouraged you from doing so.”

  His smile is indulgent. “You are always very good, trying not to trouble anyone, but you had not the understanding of what was required in this instance, which is why I did not concern myself overmuch with your opinion.”

  MISS WATTERS, COLONEL Fitzwilliam’s bride-to-be, accepts my congratulations on her engagement with a smile that is chilly as rainwater. She is gowned in silk, her bandeau adorned with curled and dyed ostrich feathers. Her brother, also impeccably dressed and groomed, is polite but distant, his eyes on the brandy in his glass. Colonel Fitzwilliam, by contrast, seems genuinely happy to meet us again; he asks after our daughter and about the Darcys’ recent visit with every appearance of true interest.

  William is soon drawn to Lady Catherine’s side by her command, and Mr. and Miss Watters drift away. The colonel watches them go with an abstracted expression, his eyes, unusually cold, on the sweep of Miss Watters’s gown as she walks.

  “How did you and Miss Watters become acquainted?” I say, and he turns his attention back to me with a smile.

  “We were introduced at a ball in London. It was her first Season; I was, ah . . . fortunate enough to win her affection.”

  The colonel steps closer. “My aunt insisted upon meeting Miss Watters as soon as I wrote to her of the engagement. What do you think, Mrs. Collins—does Lady Catherine approve my choice?”

  We both glance at Miss Watters, who has now moved to Lady Catherine’s side. The tilt of her head, the way she holds her glass, both speak of careful breeding. She is young, clearly, but does not act it, and when she speaks to her ladyship, she is all smiles and deference.

  “I think Miss Watters will do very well,” I say.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam takes a sip from his glass. “Yes, I think so, too.”

  AFTER CARDS, LADY Catherine calls for a light supper, served informally in the drawing room, and orders Miss Watters to play for us all. Miss Watters plays and sings two complicated songs with great exactitude and very little emotion, which seems to please her ladyship greatly, despite her oft-repeated criticisms of Mrs. Jenkinson for playing without proper feeling for the music.

  Lady Catherine scarcely waits until the final note has sounded before beginning her interrogation. “Do you draw, Miss Watters?”

  “I do, ma’am,” Miss Watters says, and smiles modestly.

  “I suppose you had a governess,” Lady Catherine says, looking her over.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “She seems to have done her job tolerably well. And your father made his fortune in manufacturing?” She turns to look at Mr. Watters, who masks his annoyance with impressive quickness.

  “Yes, Your Ladyship.” His smile is tight.

  Lady Catherine sniffs. “A pity, that, but I suppose it cannot be helped. My nephew hasn’t the fortune to attract someone with the right connections.” She nods at Colonel Fitzwilliam, who is watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. “I suppose my brother has met her?”

  If Miss Watters resents being spoken of as if she were not present, she has the good sense not to show it.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam nods. “He has, Aunt.” A brief, impersonal smile toward Miss Watters. “He approved heartily.”

  “He always was too liberal with his approval,” Lady Catherine says. “See how quickly he approved Darcy’s choice!” But her expression softens, just a little. “Your choice, however, Nephew, is worth approving, I think.”

  The party disperses soon after that, Lady Catherine declaring that it is time for those of us not staying at Rosings to leave. A footman leads us from house to carriage for the short ride back to the parsonage. I am preoccupied; I spent much of the evening watching the colonel and his intended as they played at quadrille with Lady Catherine and Mr. Watters. They scarcely exchanged three words, and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s usually affable manner was absent. That the marriage is clearly one of convenience on both sides—he offers her connections to the nobility, she brings him a fortune by way of her substantial dowry—once would not have troubled me at all. That I find it troubling now troubles me even more.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Today it has been raining without stop, and I have closed myself in my parlor with the fire lit and my chair dragged nearer the window, the better to make use of its pale gray light. I have not answered my mother’s letter, and I have not mentioned its contents to William. Instead, I drown out thoughts of what I ought to be doing with the scratch of my pencil against paper, losing myself in line and shadow. The task is restful; I don’t have to think, which is exactly what I need right now. There is something comforting in the idea that in this, at least, I can muddle along and, slowly, see small improvements with each attempt.

  When at last I raise my head and find that it is already time for tea, I have again discarded more drawings than not. But there are a few—small studies, merely, unpolished and taken entirely from memory—that I think, perhaps, I can eventually turn into something better.

  THE AIR IS fresh and cool, the ground still wet, but I am determined to take Louisa for a walk. She has been cooped up in the house for far too long, without even the occasional run around the garden. Her little legs want stretching. And I want—I want—something. To be out of the house. Out of the yard. Away from the letter that still waits for my response in the parlor.

  I lace us both into our sturdiest boots and we set out down the lane. Louisa dashes towar
d every puddle, and despite my best efforts we have not gone far out of sight of the parsonage before her boots, stockings, and hem are filthy. The leaves are starting to turn; I point out the colors as we pass, though I am not sure whether Louisa hears me at all, so intent is she upon dragging a stick through the mud behind her.

  We leave the woods behind and head out through the fields. I feel the damp dragging at my skirt and petticoat and lift my hems. My legs are free to stride as they please; I run with my child through the tall grass.

  It is Louisa who spots him first, stopping short and raising a finger to point. I look, and there is Mr. Travis, small at this distance but still unmistakable. He lifts his hat; I take Louisa’s hand and pull her forward.

  “Mrs. Collins, Miss Collins.” Mr. Travis smiles, highlighting the lines about his eyes and mouth. “It is a rather damp day for a walk.”

  “We have been kept inside far too long. Louisa has been going a bit mad.”

  He reaches out a hand to touch Louisa’s round cheek. “She has grown, even since I saw her last.”

  “I think she has grown since I saw her last.”

  A chuckle, then a pause. “What is your destination?”

  “I did not have one in mind.” I peer up at him. “And yours?”

  His face is so tan that it is difficult to tell, but I think perhaps he is flushing. “I . . . had a mind to check on your roses.”

  Now it is I who blushes. His smile is rueful. But when I speak, it is with an air of nonchalance. “I take this walk frequently,” I say. “I like the . . . solitude. It is rare that we see another person.”

  He lifts his brows. “Then I suppose I should apologize for intruding on your solitude.”

  I shake my head. “In your case, there is no intrusion.”

  He smiles, wide and toothy, and looks away across the field. We both watch Louisa, her dress soaked from hem to knee, as she wanders away from us. I set my mind to the task of finding something mundane to say and settle at last upon, “Mr. Collins tells me the harvest was particularly abundant this year. Lady Catherine is very pleased.”

  “As are her tenants,” Mr. Travis says dryly. “Though there is some concern that such abundance might lead her ladyship to think the time is right to increase rents.”

  My brows go up. “Indeed? Has she done so in the past?”

  “To her credit, generally only in times of plenty, when we can best afford it. Though it does rankle somewhat that we are unable, then, to enjoy increased prosperity ourselves. And it might be that it is Mr. Colt whom we have to thank in such cases; I do not know how deeply involved Lady Catherine herself is in the running of the estate.”

  “Nor do I, though I would be . . . surprised . . . if Lady Catherine did not take an interest in all aspects of her estate.”

  We exchange quick smiles and both look away again.

  “Well,” he says at last. “If rents are increased, I fear there will be more parishioners in need of your assistance this winter.”

  I look at Louisa, who has chosen to sit herself down in the middle of the field, no doubt adding mud and grass stains to the wetness of her skirt. I should scold her but cannot muster the will; instead, my mind has flown back to my parlor and the letter tucked into a cubby in my writing desk.

  “There is a chance,” I say slowly, “that we will no longer be in Kent this winter.”

  Speaking the words releases some pressure within me, and I exhale a great breath.

  Mr. Travis stands statue-like for a moment, then says, “Why?”

  I tell him, haltingly, about my mother’s letter. “It could be nothing. Mr. Bennet might be perfectly well at this very moment. But . . . even if he is, he will not live forever. Mr. Collins is heir to the estate; someday, we must leave here.”

  I’ve always known this, of course; indeed, when I accepted William’s proposal, it was with the glad understanding that our time in Kent would be limited, and that I would someday return to Hertfordshire and be near my family. But it is only now that the reality of my situation is no longer something to anticipate with pleasure. Nothing has changed, not truly, and yet my world is slipping sideways, away from me.

  Mr. Travis clears his throat. I look at him, sturdy and windblown. He does not smile now, though his eyes are gentle under those wild brows. He bends at the waist, a small bow.

  As he rises he says, “Your friends will have to make the most of your company, then, while they still have it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  When I write at last to my mother, I simply ignore her mention of Mr. Bennet’s illness and talk instead of lighter things. To William, I say nothing; there is, after all, no certainty that his cousin will not rally and live for another ten years or more, and I cannot face the eager speculation with which he is almost certain to greet the news.

  But as the days slip by like the pages of a book turned too quickly, passing through the bursting color of autumn to the blue-gray of winter, there is an unreal quality about them. I cannot be certain that my time in Kent is limited, but neither can I shake away the feeling that I am living in a suspended moment. Hunsford has become home to me, quite suddenly and without my noticing the change. My confidence has grown, since that first visit to Mrs. Fitzgibbon, and I have begun to call with greater frequency upon the parishioners, not only when I know a baby is due or that someone is ill, but at regular intervals, with little treats for the children and notions for the women that they might enjoy, but on which they would not likely spend their own hard-earned coin. I am fully occupied, and it feels good. If the tenants are surprised by my new attentiveness, they are too polite to say so, and no one seems to find my visits intrusive, as I once feared they would.

  And I have a friend, at last, someone whose mind and spirit resonate with my own. Such a difference a single true friend makes. My thoughts and feelings are lighter for having someone with whom I can share them. The leaves change around me, the wind grows bitter, and yet, for the first time since my marriage, I am truly happy. Even knowing, as I think I do, that this new, easy season must soon end.

  MR. TRAVIS AND I have met accidentally several times since that day in the damp field; sometimes Louisa is with me, bundled in her cap and spencer, but often she remains with Martha at the parsonage while I take baskets to the cottagers, walking slowly through the fallow fields between Rosings Park and the tenants’ farms.

  We also see each other in Hunsford more than once, but neither of us ever acknowledges the other beyond the briefest of courtesies—we nod, our eyes catching for only a moment, and then walk on. At church, we do not speak, though it is harder there, when I am not moving, to keep my gaze from lingering upon his face and figure. I do my best to keep my back to him and to not allow myself to be drawn into conversation with those in his vicinity, for surely, surely if we were to stand close together, everyone must feel the intimacy between us?

  “I RETURNED THE book you gave me,” I tell him today. I have brought my sketching things, and I am trying to draw the view. Mr. Travis sits, knees drawn up to his chest, and watches as I rub out yet another false start.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “Though I assumed you had, as no fines were issued on my account.” He leans over, takes up one of the drawings I set aside, and turns it this way and that. “Was it useful?”

  I smile a little. “If you call encouraging me to waste a great deal of paper useful . . .”

  “If you enjoy it, then yes, I do.” He holds out the paper in his hand. “You are too critical of your own efforts.”

  I keep my eyes upon my work. “I do enjoy it. But I fear I will never be truly good at it.” I set my pencil down and study what I have created so far—bare-branched trees, sloping meadow grasses—and frown.

  “I think you’ve made an excellent start.”

  “I will begin again another day.” But even as I say the words, the knowledge thuds through me, a stone dropped from a great distance: I might have few opportunities remaining to draw this partic
ular view. I should not waste this one.

  And then, horribly, I remember: “I drew your father once, Mr. Travis.”

  The hope in his face makes me want to weep. “You did?”

  I can recall it clearly, the half-formed portrait: old Mr. Travis’s face, wrinkles spread across it like a delicate root system.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. My voice is brittle as spring ice. “I regret this—so very much. I cannot remember what left me so dissatisfied with it.”

  It takes a moment, but Mr. Travis understands my meaning. He looks at me and sighs. His eyes are brown, which should not matter, it should not be something I notice at all. But it does; it is. They are brown, like mine. Like William’s, and Louisa’s, and those of a hundred other people I have met. A most ordinary thing, brown eyes. His father’s eyes were brown, as well. I turn my face aside until I am able to compose myself.

  “I never thanked you properly for the book,” I say at last. “It was a very thoughtful thing to do.”

  “It was a very thoughtless thing to do.”

  “Impertinent, perhaps,” I say after a moment, looking sideways at him. “But not thoughtless.”

  A LETTER FROM Elizabeth contains no mention of her father’s health, and at first I take this as a positive sign that he is well. But then I think—would she mention it if he were not? As dear to one another as Lizzy and I are, we have never once discussed that I will someday be mistress of her father’s estate, and I suppose she might feel strange if there were reason to acknowledge that “one day” might be coming rather sooner than later.

  “WHAT MADE YOU choose this path? Farming, I mean, since you were not raised to it.”

  Mr. Travis and I sit on a hill a little ways from Rosings’s woods. The surrounding fields are still green from the rain, the hedgerows a little darker. On the edges of the fields, the trees weep golden leaves, and the sky is stretched taut above us, bare of clouds.