We have been here for half an hour or more; the chill of the ground is beginning to seep through my pelisse, gown, and petticoat, but at least it is not damp. I do not wish to move. There is something both precious and precarious in these moments, and I hover within them—as I walk out from the parsonage, wondering whether I will meet Mr. Travis coming from the other direction; as we see one another and smile, both of us pretending we have not noticed the new frequency of such meetings; as, without having to consult one another, we find a spot to sit, the niceties utterly unnecessary. In choosing to visit with me, he is sacrificing valuable time on his farm, but the one time I tentatively voiced this concern, he was gruff in his dismissal of it. “It’s all right,” he said, his tone shorter than it normally was when he spoke to me. “I have time.” I thought I understood his terseness, for I had just acknowledged something we had tacitly agreed to leave unacknowledged; and so I said nothing more.
Today we crested this hill together, walking so quickly that when we reached the top my breath was coming in great gasps; when I looked at Mr. Travis, I was happy to see that he felt the exertion, as well. He caught my eye, and a slow grin spread across his face. I could feel my own smile answering his, and then suddenly we were laughing, for no reason at all.
“It is not as if there were a great many choices available to me,” Mr. Travis says now, slowly. He looks at me sideways. “The son of a gardener cannot afford the education of a gentleman. And I like working in the open air. But—I was not satisfied by the prospect of keeping the gardens at Rosings Park for the rest of my life.”
“Indeed? Rosings’s gardens are very beautiful.” I make my voice neutral and raise my eyes to the pale sky.
He hesitates, then says, “Yes, I would agree, though perhaps mostly out of loyalty to my father, for he is the one who implemented most of Lady Catherine’s, ah, improvements. But we have spoken of this before, I think, and I told you then that I am neither artist nor poet.” A pause. “But still, beauty comes in many forms, does it not? And I find more of it looking out over a well-tended field than walking among manicured topiaries.”
Something in his voice makes my stomach tighten. I look at him sharply, and Mr. Travis returns the look with his usual steadiness. My breath whispers out through parted lips.
“Do you compare me to a field, Mr. Travis?” I might have asked, were I young and unmarried and accustomed to flirtation. But I am none of these things, so I close my mouth over the words that jostle for release behind it.
TODAY, HE STANDS near the churchyard. I am a little ways away, just outside the church door, greeting the last stragglers as they exit the building. He is joined by Mr. and Mrs. Prewitt and their niece, who looks very charming in a wide-brimmed bonnet trimmed with flowers. Mrs. Prewitt, as ever, seems to be doing much of the talking. I make myself look elsewhere.
“What do you think of that?” Mrs. Fitzgibbon says. She has come up beside me, and her eyes, sharp as a crow’s, have noticed to where my attention keeps wandering.
I swallow down my instinctive fear at having been observed and say dryly, “I think that Mrs. Prewitt might be playing matchmaker.”
Apparently, Mrs. Fitzgibbon wheezes when she laughs too hard.
The little group is still standing there when William and I are ready to return home. They stop talking when we pass, murmuring their good-byes. Mr. Travis’s eyes flicker toward my hand upon William’s elbow, and then away.
I LEAN AGAINST a fence post, arms crossed against the chill. In contrast, Mr. Travis is warm from effort, his coat off and his shirtsleeves rolled up. His forearms are thickly dusted with dark hair. He chops wood with impressive energy; the little pile that was beside him when I first arrived has grown into a sizable stack.
“Mrs. Prewitt seems quite intent upon throwing you together with her niece,” I say.
A noncommittal noise. I dig my fingers into my arms.
“It was you who introduced us,” he says after a moment.
“At Mrs. Prewitt’s request.”
Mr. Travis casts me a surprised glance.
“She was most insistent,” I add. “You were on her—rather short—list of eligible men.”
He laughs, a low sound that vibrates through me. My fingers dig harder, until the pressure begins to hurt in earnest.
“You could do a great deal worse,” I say.
He raises one brow, looks sideways at me. “I notice you do not say I could do any better.”
“Do not look for flattery, Mr. Travis. It is beneath you.”
He returns to his task, appearing absorbed, but speaks again after a moment. “Despite her many fine qualities, I do not believe Miss Harmon equal to being a farmer’s wife. There is a great deal of hard work involved—”
“How can you know what she is equal to?” I say. My voice is louder than I intended.
The axe falls with a thunk, and he turns to face me fully. “What does it matter to you?” he says, and there is something suddenly wild about his countenance. He takes a step forward, his hands tight fists at his sides. “Why are you so insistent that I consider her? Am I so—pathetic, so in need of companionship?” He swings away from me and then back again. “You are—I haven’t words for what you are.” His hands are raised above his head, the brim of his hat crumpled in one fist. Then he looks at me again. “You are married.”
And there it is, between us for the first time. I stare at him.
There is an apology somewhere in my throat, but I cannot seem to dislodge it. Instead I stand with my back very straight, my chin raised as if to take a blow. I can feel myself trembling, but I hope, from the distance between us, that he cannot see it.
“I—” But I have no response, for I do not know why I am behaving this way.
“Well?” he says.
“I—I am your friend,” I say at last, so quietly that I can scarcely hear myself. “I want you to be happy.”
His face seems to sag, then, the lines that were drawn tight around his eyes and mouth suddenly slack, and he looks away. When he looks back, I cannot read his expression at all. “And you believe Miss Harmon can make me happy?”
“Yes,” I say, softly. I am brittle, breakable.
He shakes his head. “I am not sure why,” he says at last, “but I did not think you would lie to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The leaves have completely fallen, and the air is truly cold. It is too cold for any sensible woman to walk out if she does not have to, and, as I am always—always—sensible, I remain indoors near the fire except when parish business obliges me to venture out with a poultice or tincture for an ailing cottager. Lady Catherine is particularly vehement in her advice that we must all avoid growing too cold at all costs, and so I do not mention my forays into the sharp outdoor air unless she asks specifically about them. I allow the cold to drive my feet, walking quickly on these visits to the cottages rather than lingering in the fields between Rosings and the farms, and though I feel a slight shock of anticipation each time, I never meet anyone on my way. I wonder whether Mr. Travis still walks out sometimes, despite the cold, on the chance that he might meet me, or whether he, too, feels the awkwardness of our last exchange. Though he comes to church he does not look my way, and I cannot say whether it is because he does not wish to, or if his seeming disinterest is merely a continuation of the game of indifference we have been playing these past weeks.
IT IS COLD enough that we have slaughtered the pig. It had grown so fat that we shall be well stocked with pork and bacon throughout the winter, with enough left to distribute to those less fortunate. Though Lady Catherine is generous with her tenants at Christmastime, some, especially those with large families, often require more food than she provides as the winter wears on.
I am glad that Lady Catherine’s edict against going out in the cold prevents Martha and me from taking Louisa for walks in the garden, for I do not like to think of her reaction were she to run to the pig’s pen and find it empty.
&nbs
p; THE LETTER ARRIVES during breakfast. I am holding Louisa on my lap, offering her bites of toast, when Mrs. Baxter comes into the room. “Post for you, sir,” she says. She bobs quickly and hands William a letter with a thick wax seal.
He drops it beside his plate, wiping his fingers and mouth hastily upon the tablecloth, then picks it up again to examine it. “Oh, my,” he says, and breaks the seal. I lean forward, curiosity roused, and watch as he reads, his mouth falling open. Louisa wriggles, and I hand her another bite.
“What is it?” I say; enough time has surely passed for William to have read through the letter’s contents at least twice.
When William looks at me, he is smiling in a queerly twisted way. “The best possible news,” he says, “and the worst.”
My heart beats desperately. “You mean . . .”
He fixes his expression into something more appropriately solemn. “My cousin Bennet is dead,” he says, “and I have inherited Longbourn.”
I am shaking my head. “When?”
“Not a week ago. Apparently he has been ill for some time.”
I never was able to bring myself to tell him about my mother’s letter. I look down at my coffee, growing tepid in its cup. “Poor Eliza,” I say.
William’s solemn expression deepens. “I feel, of course, for my poor cousins in their bereavement. But the two eldest made such fortunate marriages that they cannot be sad for long, for their circumstances are much happier than they must ever have dreamed they would be when this—unhappy event—took place.”
“They have still lost their father,” I say. “I must write to them. To Elizabeth, and Jane, and Mrs. Bennet.” I look at him. “So should you, my dear.”
William is already rising from his chair. “Yes, of course. But first I must go to Rosings—her ladyship must be informed.”
He exits the room, shouting for his hat. I am left with Louisa, who lunges toward the stack of sliced bread, nearly upsetting my coffee.
WILLIAM RETURNS FROM Rosings Park flush with Lady Catherine’s felicitations.
“She invited us to visit tomorrow,” he says. I cannot help but be impressed that his enthusiasm for an invitation from her ladyship seems undiminished, whether it is the first such summons or the five hundredth.
LADY CATHERINE HAS sent her carriage for us. William spends the entirety of the short ride declaiming his opinions of her thoughtfulness and generosity, falls briefly silent as we are divested of our wraps and shown into the drawing room, and then begins speaking again on the same theme almost as soon as we have made our bows.
At last Lady Catherine interrupts him with a flick of her hand. “Do sit down, Mr. Collins, you are making my neck ache.”
William bows deeply. “Of course, Your Ladyship, and please allow me to apologize for my—”
“Mrs. Collins,” Lady Catherine says, turning to me and cutting William’s words off entirely. “Your husband has told me of your good fortune. I am very happy for you.”
“Thank you, Lady Catherine.”
She inclines her head. “You are just the sort of person I like to see raised up a little in the world. You are modest and genteel, and unlike some ladies I could name, you haven’t such fixed opinions that you do not recognize sound advice when you hear it.”
There is nothing to say to this except, “You are too kind, ma’am.”
Lady Catherine smiles and returns her attention to William. “I know I asked that you not remove to Hertfordshire until I had secured your replacement—”
“And you know, Your Ladyship, that I would never dream of leaving Kent until I am certain the parish is in capable hands. It would be unthinkable to do anything without first consulting Your Ladyship’s feelings—”
Another wave of Lady Catherine’s be-ringed hand. “Yes, you are most attentive to your duties. But I recalled this morning that I have heard of a suitable candidate. Lady Thornton wrote me recently of her nephew, who a short time ago received ordination. At the time, I said merely that I would tell her if I heard of a vacant living, but now . . .” Her smile is as self-satisfied as any I have seen. “I met the young man once, a few years ago when he was newly at Cambridge; he was most deferential, very pleasing in his manners. I wrote to his aunt immediately to tell her that the living at Hunsford is his, should he still have need of it, and if he does you may be off to Longbourn as soon as you wish.”
“That—that is good news, indeed, Your Ladyship,” William says. I avert my eyes from the confusion in his; to be so easily replaced must war with his desire to be master of his own estate.
“That is excellent news,” I say, “but I do not know whether we may take residence at Longbourn quite as quickly as that.”
Every eye in the room is upon me, full, in equal measure, of outrage and astonishment. William’s mouth hangs open; I long to close it for him.
“Whatever can you mean?” Lady Catherine leans forward in her chair, eyes narrowed.
“Forgive me, Lady Catherine, I mean no disrespect,” I say quickly. “It is only—the Bennet ladies will surely require a little time to make arrangements for their new lives? There are two unmarried daughters still at home, as well as Mrs. Bennet.”
“And have they no relations to whom they might turn?” her ladyship says.
“Yes, of course they do—”
“Then I can see no impediment to your taking residence very quickly. They can have little to pack except personal effects, and no doubt they have long been anticipating this day. If they have made no arrangements for themselves, that is hardly your concern.” Lady Catherine shakes her head. “I will send word as soon as I receive a reply from Lady Thornton.”
Chapter Thirty
The sky, low and gray, threatens snow, but I cannot stand to be in the house any longer. It will be several days until I receive a reply to my letters to Elizabeth, Jane, and Mrs. Bennet, and I cannot seem to fix my attention upon anything mundane while our situation is so unsettled. A letter from my mother arrived not long after the letter from Mr. Bennet’s attorney; she was suitably reserved in her effusions, but still I could read her happiness in every stroke of her pen. I cannot even say that being back in the neighborhood of my birth, surrounded by so many familiar and dear people—not least among them, my mother and sister—is unappealing. And yet I cannot rid myself of the sensation that I am suffocating.
A basket over my arm, I leave the parsonage, grateful that William remains in his book room, oblivious to my movements.
In the woods, my footsteps crunch through the dead leaves. The world smells of winter, and all is still. I watch my breath puff white and ghostlike before me as I walk.
Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s mouth forms an O of surprise when she opens the door to find me there, but she quickly urges me inside. “Here, Mrs. Collins, take a seat beside the fire. I will build it up higher—”
“No, no need,” I say. She is wrapped up very warm, even here indoors; she mustn’t waste good fuel on my foolishness. “Please, do not trouble yourself—this is perfectly cozy.”
“Some tea, at least,” the old lady says, and I agree at last.
The tea is weak but hot, and my hands are grateful as I wrap them around the pretty china cup. Mrs. Fitzgibbon settles herself upon a stool beside me and looks at me expectantly.
“Not that I object to a visit,” she says, smiling, “but this is rather odd weather to be out in, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”
I laugh, feeling a warmth in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the fire. “I recently finished a present that I planned to give you over Christmas, but now I am unsure whether we will still be here then.”
Mrs. Fitzgibbon looks startled. “Are you and Mr. Collins traveling?”
“No—well—yes. But we will not be returning from these travels. Lady Catherine believes she has found a suitable replacement for my husband, and so he and I will be journeying to Hertfordshire to take up residence at the estate he recently inherited.”
“My goodness.” Mrs. Fitzgibbon
takes a sip of her tea. “Well, I suppose I ought to express my congratulations, and I do, but I cannot pretend I will not miss your company.”
“I will miss yours, as well.”
“You’ll be quite the grand lady,” she says, with a smile as mischievous as any of Louisa’s.
I laugh. “It is only a smallish estate. But I hope I can help Mr. Collins make it more profitable than did its previous master.”
Mr. Bennet always seemed to me an unforgivably careless master, preferring a life of scholarly pursuits to one of estate management. He rarely exerted himself to curb his wife’s and youngest daughters’ spending, or to deny their requests for extra pin money, allowing them to do as they pleased rather than disturb his own peace by subjecting himself to feminine fits of pique. And he assumed that Mrs. Bennet would eventually bear an heir to the estate, thus saving him the trouble of considering what would happen to her and to his daughters when he died—a grievous error in judgment that I will ensure William and I do not make the mistake of repeating.
I know very well how to publicly live genteelly while privately stretching pennies as far as they will go. William, of course, as master, will have charge of the estate itself, but I shall manage the household, and with a little thriftiness on my part, I’ve no doubt we can provide Louisa with a proper dowry. Though our income at Longbourn will exceed what we are accustomed to here in Hunsford, I have no intention of wasting our good fortune by buying baubles and bonnets every time I walk into Meryton. And with a suggestion here or there, cleverly disguised, I believe I shall be able to exert influence over the running of the home and tenant farms, as well, though if there is enough money, hiring a steward might still be prudent. It will all be something of an adventure, really; I feel the smallest stirring of excitement at the thought.
“No doubt you’ll do well enough,” Mrs. Fitzgibbon says. Her eyes slide toward the basket, which I set upon the kitchen table when I arrived.
“Oh!” I say, and stand rather too quickly. I reach into the basket. “I’ve brought you some of my mother’s favorite blend of tea—she always sends some as a surprise every few months—and . . . this.” I hold the picture up, unfolding it and feeling unaccountably shy.
The Clergyman's Wife Page 17
