A Most Affectionate Mother

by Maria Grace

  But if it was, it would explain Mrs. Mullen’s horror at her son’s treatment. And if she carried through on her threats ….

  All Mary’s well-meaning efforts would have ruined a man … a man she cared for more than she should … one that she maybe … no, that was not possible … but yes, it was … one whom she loved. She covered her face with her hands and wept, choking and gut-wrenching sobs she could not have controlled had she wanted to.

  When she looked up, eyes blurry and sore, the woods had grown dark. The bits of sky she could make out through the trees were gloomy and ominous. Cold wind slapped at her, warning her of what came with it. Of course, a storm was looming. How fitting when her life felt like a chapter of a Gothic novel.

  Lightning seared the sky. Ear-shattering thunder rattled the trees hardly a breath later. She needed to find cover immediately. But where was she?

  The path she had been following—she had been following a path, had she not? But where was it now? Paths did not just disappear—at least when one was not a heroine in a novel, they did not.

  There it was, precisely where it was supposed to be! How could she have missed it? Foolish, foolish girl! Now was not the time to allow ridiculous imaginings to take control of her good sense. Another sharp gust cut through the trees. She wrapped her arms around her waist and hurried down the path until it came to a fork.

  If only she had noticed the fork when she was rushing headlong into the woods like a sapscull. She closed her eyes. Which side of the fork had she followed here? Surely, she had come down along the right-hand side. That one would lead her out, maybe even before the rain began.

  Or perhaps not. Fat drops splashed on leaves and made their way through the canopy. Only a moment later, a deluge poured from the sky. All hope that any of her person would remain dry disappeared. Wind whipped the rain into painful stinging blasts that burned her cheeks and arms.

  She should have cleared the woods by now. The fields should be in view. There was a shack not far from the trail where she ought to be able to take refuge. If only she could get past all these trees.

  But the forest remained unmoved. If anything, the trees became denser and the path less clear. Was it possible she had taken the wrong fork?

  She turned to follow the trail back. Lightning flashed, and something flared in the treetops above her as thunder resonated in her bones. A tree snapped and fell, blocking the path ahead. Even if it were the correct path, she dare not take it until the weather passed.

  She glanced about, but it was darker than before. Even if there were shelter nearby, she could not make it out. If she left the path now, would she be able to find it later? Probably not. She huddled near a large tree and tried to forget the aching, wet cold that seeped deep into her bones.

  By the time the clouds cleared, they revealed a sliver of moon high in the sky. The light was comforting, but not enough to see by. She would have to wait until morning to find her way back. She closed her eyes and flirted with sleep.

  Cool morning breezes across her still-damp clothes roused her from a light sleep. Cold, wet, and thirsty. Most everything ached. That is what one got for getting lost in the woods. And, oh yes, she was still lost. At least there was light now, and she might, if she were lucky, be able to find the way back out of this unfortunate place.

  She stood and looked around, her sodden skirt clinging to her legs like plaster. Was that the faint trace of the path she had followed yesterday? Possibly, hopefully. Nothing else resembled a trail, so she might as well follow it. She rubbed her hands briskly along her soggy sleeves and set off. With so many limbs blown down by the storm, it was difficult to tell where the trail had been. The waterlogged ground proved slippery with mud and dead leaves under her feet, slowing her progress to a crawl.

  What if she could not find her way back? Now she was being silly. Surely she would encounter someone who could direct her to Leighton Manor. She could not be that deep into the woods, could she? But what if she encountered—stop! Hysterical thoughts would not help.

  Wait, what was that? She held her breath and closed her eyes as though that might improve her hearing.

  “Miss! Miss! Miss Bennet!” A high, boyish voice was not too far off.

  “Nate, is that you?” she cried, searching through the tree trunks.

  A small form broke through the branches. “I found her! She is here!” Nate ran for her and wrapped his arms around her knees. “I am so glad we found you. I was sure we would. We had to, we just had to.” He released her and shouted through cupped hands. “I’ve found her! She is found!”

  More boys burst through the trees, followed by Mr. Johnstone. Dark circles lined his eyes matched by furrowed and heavy brows. He approached with solid, powerful steps.

  “Are you injured?” He looked over her shoulder, avoiding any eye contact.

  “No, sir.”

  “But she is cold and wet!” Nate cried. “Her lips are nearly blue!”

  Mr. Johnstone pulled off his coat and wrapped her in it. Oh gracious, how very warm and heavy and comforting it was. Her knees buckled. He caught her as she crumpled to the ground, sweeping her into his arms.

  The boys gathered around him, and they began to walk.

  “David, Thomas, run ahead and see that Mrs. Johnstone has warm blankets and hot water ready for us.”

  The two boys sprinted off.

  “You do not have to carry me, I can—”

  “Do not argue. If I do not carry you, the children will try to do it themselves.” He grumbled, still not looking at her.

  She rested her head on his shoulder, strong and secure like the rest of him. But, no doubt he was cross, even angry with her. There was no warmth in his voice or eyes. After all she had done, why would he welcome her presence at all?

  She swallowed hard and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the hot rivulets pouring down her cheeks.

  Mrs. Johnstone was waiting in the kitchen with a dry, warm blanket and a large cup of hot broth. Mr. Johnstone set her down in front of the fire and saw her wrapped in the blanket before he stalked away. How delicious was the warmth seeping into her mostly numb and heavy limbs, melting away tension, along with most of her thoughts. As soon as she had drunk the broth, Mrs. Johnstone urged her upstairs, helped her into a warm dry nightgown, and tucked her into a warmed bed. Mary fell asleep before Mrs. Johnstone left her room.

  When she rose the next day, it was nearly noon given the shadows on the floor. Peeking over the pile of blankets, the cozy little room took shape around her, sunlight sneaking around the drawn curtains. If only she could stay here, nestled warm and snug—forever. But that was hardly realistic. Nothing would change the reality that she had to face the aftermath of yesterday’s storm.

  She pushed off the covers and sat up. Gracious, it took more effort than it should to do that. She tested each joint in turn. Stiff and achy, one and all. Easing herself off the bed, she tested her strength. Standing was not too bad despite the lingering weariness. Slowly, far more slowly than she would have preferred, she tugged open the drapes, allowing the sunbeams to bathe and warm her. She sniffled and searched for a handkerchief in the press next to the window. If all she had to complain for from a night spent in the woods was a stuffy nose, then she was very lucky indeed.

  She dressed, albeit sluggishly, listening to the sounds of the children in the schoolroom below stairs. She swallowed hard. Those noises distracted her when she first came, but now the low roar they created was welcome, even comforting. She would miss it when she left. No doubt, that would be soon enough. Surely, it would not be wrong to linger a few more moments and enjoy it.

  A quarter of an hour later, she made her way downstairs. Mrs. Johnstone saw her from the parlor and hurried to meet her.

  “How are you feeling? You gave us all such a fright.” She laced her arm in Mary’s.

  “A sniffle, but nothing more of concern. Pray forgive me for causing you worry. I had no idea of getting lost in the woods like that. I followed the
trail in, but then took the wrong fork back and … and …” She sniffled. No, it would not do to weep.

  Mrs. Johnstone patted her hand. “It could have happened to any of us. You seemed so distraught when you dashed out. In that state of mind, distressing things always seem to happen.”

  “Still, I should not have been so rash. I like to think that is out of character for me. But perhaps I am mistaken.” She balled her fist and pressed it against her belly.

  “Nonsense, you are as steady a girl as I have ever known. Come, now, let us find you something to break your fast. You must be famished. I know those boys must not have eaten everything in the house, at least not yet.” She chuckled under her breath as she trundled toward the kitchen while waving Mary to the dining room.

  Mary sat in the chair that had effectively become hers. Near the window, it afforded a commanding view of the boys when they were seated to eat around the scuffed oak table. Funny little chaps, many still struggling with their table manners. Mealtimes seemed to be as much a lesson time as did the school day. Though there were times she missed the more polished conversation around the dining table at Longbourn, there was an element of whimsy—and chaos—that the boys brought to each meal. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes.

  “Miss Bennet?” Mr. Johnstone stood in the doorway staring at her, a little breathless. “My mother told me I was wanted immediately in the dining room and has taken over supervising the boys as they read. She implied there was a matter most urgent requiring my attention.”

  “She told me she was off to the kitchen—”

  “Excuse me sir,” the maid ducked around him, a breakfast tray in her hands. She set it in front of Mary and scuttled away as fast as she could without running.

  “It seems as though she succeeded in her errand.” His eyebrow rose slightly. “Pray, please, go ahead and eat. Do not let me stop you.” He sat down near her. The herbal scent of his shaving oil nearly brought tears to her eyes. She would miss that.

  “You must forgive me. I am not sure I have an appetite.” She pushed the tray back several inches. “I have no idea what your mother would consider pressing enough to separate you from your students.”

  He grunted, lips wrinkled into something like a frown. “I am surprised you ran off as you did. I did not expect you to be foolish enough to be lost in the woods.”

  She shrugged. “Neither did I. I did not exactly leave Leighton with the plan and intention to become lost.”

  “Very few do, I would suppose. Still, as many times as you have warned the boys to take care not to lose their way, I expected you to be a better example.” He drummed his fingers on the table.

  “I did, too.” She sipped her cup of tea, more for something to do than anything else.

  Silence—broken only by the regular sound of his breathing and her occasional sniffle.

  But it could not continue all morning. Someone had to break the stillness. It may as well be her. “I pray you and your mother will be able to forgive me. I … I thought I could do much better for all of you. But it seems I am mistaken. I should go back to Longbourn now, before … before there are any more mishaps. I am sure it will be best for you and the children that way. I can write to my father to send the coach as soon as possible, or if you prefer, I … I do not mind purchasing a ticket for the stage bound for Meryton.”

  “You would ride the public stage by yourself?” His jaw dropped.

  “If that is your preference. I can see I am a disruption to the household and I … I understand why you might want to keep that to a minimum after what has happened.” She turned away. Though he seemed to be making no effort to meet her gaze, there was no point in taking a chance he might.

  “Are you in such a hurry to be rid of us? That you would jeopardize your reputation?” He slapped the table hard enough to rattle her teacup.

  “I never suggested I was.” She sat up a little straighter.

  “It certainly sounded that way to me.” Was he growling at her?

  “I am only trying to do what is best for your family and your school.”

  “And how would you know what was best?” He knocked harder on the tabletop.

  “I supposed that is an excellent question. I clearly cannot discern such things and should have declined this invitation in the first place. I have been out of place all along.” She stood and turned her back to him. “You may thank the attentions of my most affectionate mother for that.”

  “It seems then you would do well to be rid of us all.”

  “You have done nothing to suggest otherwise.”

  “Have I not?” His chair scraped along the wooden floor.

  She whirled and met his gaze full on. The eye contact forced her back half a step, but she grasped the back of her chair and stood her ground. If he thought he could intimidate her now, he had forgotten that day in the library, and she would remind him.

  A gambit of expressions crossed his face in just a few seconds. Finally he looked away, shoulders slumping and mumbling. “I suppose I have not.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You are right. I have done little to express my opinion of your contributions one way or another. I have been remiss.” His head drooped, and he stared at the floor.

  She pulled back her shoulders and straightened her spine. “I beg you, spare me your analysis. It is entirely enough to know the damage I have caused with the Mullens. Whatever else I may have done pales by comparison.”

  “What damage?” His head snapped up, and he gaped at her.

  Surely he was not going to force her to recount it all for him. “Mrs. Mullen declares she will remove her son from your charge and ensure no other families ever sent their sons to you again.”

  “She said what?” His brows knit, but he laughed, deep and long.

  “I cannot understand why you should find that so amusing.” Her hands trembled.

  “Because it is completely laughable, that is why. I cannot imagine why you do not find her diverting as well.” He touched her hand and bade her to sit once again.

  “Perhaps because I was there to listen to her threats. Apparently I seem to take the welfare of your establishment far more seriously than you do if you find threats to it so droll. Clearly I have misplaced my loyalties.”

  He fell heavily into his chair. “You are being temperamental and flighty and utterly unlike yourself, and I will not have it. You are a steady and sensible woman, and I demand her to return right now.”

  “You are awfully sure of yourself.”

  “I can be when I am right.”

  Oh, that smug, self-satisfied look he wore. Was he intentionally being maddening?

  “Mrs. Mullen is a hysterical goose. All who know her agree. She is on the verge of ruining that boy for all good society. He has been sent here in the effort to prepare him for the world of men.” Mrs. Johnstone had intimated something like that at the manor.

  “That is not what she says.” Her voice lost a little of its assurance.

  “Of course not, that is what makes her a goose. It is what his father says that matters in this case, considering it is he who is truly in charge of the boy. Once Mrs. Mullen left our parlor, he took the boy out and gave him a sound thrashing for all the trouble he has caused, then took me to task for not birching him bloody myself.”

  Her jaw dropped, an unattractive expression she could just see in the mirror hanging on the left hand wall. It was not pleasing to look like a trout out of water, but that seemed all she was capable of at the moment.

  “I explained I had not done so since sending him to chop wood was far more humbling and more likely to serve the necessary purpose.” He leaned back and cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “You told him that?”

  “Indeed. I am pleased with the approach. That is not to say I may not be forced to follow his father’s preferences yet, but I am content to watch and see how his attitude changes now that he knows his complaints have fallen on unsympathetic ears.”

  “Th
ey are not taking their child from your school or suggesting other parents do the same?”

  “Hardly. He has even offered me an extra ten pounds to keep Charles during the holidays.” He chuckled.

  “What did you tell him?” Mary clasped her hands in her lap.

  “I have not made an answer yet.” He studied the scratches on the table and muttered, “Do you still wish to return to Longbourn?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  He threw his head back and rolled his eyes. “Must you ask that question? Is it not obvious?”

  Her throat clamped down against any possible word she could speak, and she looked away. Why of all things would he have had to ask that? She slumped into her chair.

  He scoured his face with his hands. “I see I have made a muddle of it again.”

  It would have been nice to be able to reply, but truly what was she to say?

  “When things are so apparent to me, I take it for granted everyone can see them. My most affectionate mother has often scolded me that it is a mistake. Perhaps she is right.” He dropped to a knee beside her. “Mary Bennet.”

  Her eyes locked on his—what had he said? How had he addressed her?

  “Ah, now you have heard me. Good, I had feared it might be difficult to get through to you.” Finally, that smile she had ached to see. He took her hands between his. “You asked me if I wanted you to leave now. I do not want you to leave, ever. This house has never seemed a home until you stepped through that door. You have invaded every part of my life, my home, my livelihood, my parish, my family—pleasing even my very particular mother. You have touched every part and made each one better in a way I cannot express. I have admired your spirit and your fire from the moment you fought me for that library book. I have not been able to stop thinking about you since. When you did not come home yesterday,” his voice broke, and he gulped. “When you did not come home, I did not know how I would bear it, wandering within these walls without your company. Pray, do not put me through that again, Mary, my Mary. Be my wife.”