I dared not tell. People are not reasonable when they discover secrets. Sir William Lucas certainly had not been. Mary had known him to be a cheerful, courtly sort of person—almost a second father, given how much time the Bennets and Lucases spent together—but that amiable demeanour shifted violently the day she told Harry’s secret. Mary had only been trying to reassure Sir William, but it had made no difference. Stretching her feet towards the fire, she tried to push the memory back down, but it flooded her nonetheless.
Sir William had been so worried, wondering where Harry was all day. He suspected Harry was out drinking, when really he was attending the meetings of those Methodists, the ones who ranted and raved and made Mary tremble at the outpouring of emotion as she passed by. She had thought if she broke it to Sir William, then he would be more likely to listen, and would go to Harry and plead with him to stop, appeal to his sense of family love and decency. And holding the secret made her uncomfortable, like she was lying to the Lucases.
That should have been a clue—what did it matter what my own comfort was? When you start thinking of yourself, you make trouble. Yet she spilled it all, thinking maybe it would make things right.
It was the worst decision she ever made.
Sir William’s face grew redder and redder with Mary’s revelation, while Lady Lucas’s paled, as if the colour were being drained from her into her husband. Though Mary begged Sir William to wait, the man stormed out, too eager to confront his son to keep the matter private.
“Do not leave me, Mary.” Lady Lucas had clung to Mary’s hand as her husband strode out, the older woman’s fingers trembling as she sought comfort. Though her belly roiled, Mary stayed. She held Lady Lucas’s hand and tried to recite a passage from the Old Testament, but her voice faltered on the descriptions of forgiveness, and she soon dropped into silence. They waited in misery together. Mary’s hands were still within the grasp of Lady Lucas when she heard Sir William and Harry’s voices coming up the drive. Their conflict became clear as they entered.
“You are betraying me, betraying God, betraying all of us!” Sir William yelled, and Mary shuddered as she looked at his livid face, all red blotches and purple smears.
“I never wanted to be a damn curate!” Harry yelled back. “You pumped it into me and pushed me out into the world with it. Now it’s twisted in a way you didn’t expect. You can’t take it back. If you have taught me to pay attention to God, now you must live with the consequences. I won’t stand in a surplice and bow and smile. I’ll tell people what I really think, and they’ll listen, and cringe, and then change for the better. Change!” He threw his fist into the air, and Mary shrank back unthinkingly. She knew he would never hit his father—at least, she thought she knew. Who could tell?
“After all I’ve done, after all your mother has done—”
“I never asked you to do any of it! I just wanted to be left alone. Nobody in this town leaves anything alone.” Harry threw a glance at Mary, and she ducked her head, unable to justify herself. She had been clearly wrong to have mentioned anything. She was only trying to help—but helping meant insisting you knew best, while she never knew anything at all.
“Do not be angry with Miss Mary. She knew her duty—”
“You bullied it from her, probably.”
“She volunteered where you were. She knew what a risk to your soul it was.”
Mary slipped her hands from Lady Lucas’s grasp and covered her ears like a child. “Stop, Sir William! It wasn’t like that at all.”
They continued to argue, not listening to anything Mary said, probably forgetting she was there entirely. The raging sounds grew in volume, then in tempo. The unsafe feeling in her gut churned and churned. Thoughts circled mercilessly in her head: What’s going to happen? Oh, why did I ever speak up? This is all my fault. If I had stayed quiet, Harry might have reconsidered. He would have re-joined the faith. Or Sir William would have loosened up, let Harry do his own thing for a while. I have forced them together at exactly the wrong moment.
“I hate you!”
Mary did not know which one had said it to the other, but it did not matter. Tears blurring her vision, she dashed outside, still covering her ears, though it did little to block out the shouts. When she hurtled into Longbourn, she nearly knocked over Kitty. Ignoring her, Mary threw herself onto the sofa and shook, weeping helplessly.
“Why, Mary, what is wrong?” Kitty gave her an awkward pat. Though Mary could not see her face through her tears, she could hear the puzzlement in her voice. “Is it the row at the Lucases? I could hear it from the garden. They are awfully angry, aren’t they?”
“It’s all my fault,” Mary whispered between sobs.
“No, it’s not. They’re shouting about Harry being a Methodist.” Kitty smoothed her hair, almost maternal for all her sixteen years. Mary must have appeared quite a wreck to inspire any motherliness for Kitty’s least favourite sister. “Sir William’s not angry with you, Mary.”
“I know.”
“Neither is Harry, I’m sure.”
Mary was less sure, but it did not matter. How could Kitty not sense the conflict rushing over the house like a vast wave? Whether they were angry with Mary or not, they were angry. They were fighting. No one was safe.
I am so sorry, Harry. I should never have interfered. I should have stayed quiet.
She pleaded with him mentally as she dared not aloud and continued the silent litany while he packed up his belongings and gave silent hugs good-bye to his brothers and sisters.
I am so sorry, Harry. I should have left things alone.
Mary’s eyes were shut tight as she relived the memory and endured the cascade of emotion that went with it. She forced them open and abandoned her cosy spot at the fireside. Perhaps there was some mending to do or something to tidy—anything to distract herself. She padded upstairs to her room, but everything was in place as it always was, and she could find nothing that needed mending. The Wickhams’ household ran much more smoothly than Longbourn did.
“Shall I have a fire lit in here for you, miss?” Hannah’s head ducked in the doorway. The maid’s form had thickened, and her young face had sprouted additional creases of worry. She held Prince’s basket, and with Prince’s bulk swaddled in the blankets, it was heavy. The way she held it signalled to Mary something more than weight, though. She had noticed Hannah’s figure changing slightly, but a greater clue had been the woman’s motions—oddly off-balance, sometimes jerky or hesitant. When Hannah put down the basket, the maid bent over in an unnatural angle, and Mary hurried to help her.
“You should not carry such heavy things in your condition,” she said without thinking, taking the basket handle. Prince whined within the mass of blankets.
“My…condition?” The colour drained away from Hannah’s face, and her hands began twisting together. “I…that is, miss…”
Mary dragged the basket inside, loath as she was to welcome Prince into her room, and beckoned Hannah in before shutting the door. Her cheeks heated when she tried to speak, but she managed it. “You are going to have a baby, are you not, Hannah?”
“Oh, miss!” Tears welled up in Hannah’s eyes and slid down her face. “I’m a good girl, miss, I am!” She hitched a sob.
Prince gave a sharp bark, and Mary shoved the heavy basket farther from them with her foot. “I am sure you are a good girl, Hannah, but there is going to be a baby, is there not?”
Hannah sobbed louder, but she nodded through her tears.
“And the—young man?”
Hannah shook her head with vigour, though something about her insistence struck Mary as insincere. “He’s long gone, miss. I don’t wish to speak ill of him. We were just…I was only…” Her shoulders lifted with another sob, and Mary patted the girl’s hand. “He cannot help me.”
Mary sighed. Finding the father and forcing some sort of help from him sounded impossible. What if he is not so long gone? There were a dozen rumours in Meryton of tradesmen’s daughters bei
ng meddled with by Mr Wickham. That is unfair. I have no reason to suspect him in this case. But Mary still felt uneasy and disturbed. For a moment, she wished she had pretended not to notice Hannah’s burgeoning motherhood. But then she might be dealing with it all alone.
“Have you told anyone?”
“No. I didn’t think anyone could tell yet. But if you guessed—”
Mary scanned the woman’s body, gauging the size of the thickness in her middle. “I do not talk much, and it gives me more leisure to look about me. I do not think anyone else will be able to tell for a while yet.”
“I can bind myself tighter as I go along,” Hannah said.
“That is not good for the baby.”
“What else can I do?” A note of panic entered Hannah’s voice. “If Mrs Forrest finds out, I’ll lose my place; and no one would hire me—as I am. I must work here as long as I can, until I can save a little more, or find someone…” She did not seem very clear about a solution, and Mary could not blame her. She could think of none herself. “I know I can’t hide it forever, but I need time. You won’t tell anyone, will you, miss?” Hannah’s trembling hands clutched at Mary’s.
Mary squeezed back, but a sinking feeling enveloped her. Hannah’s condition not only threatened the maid’s livelihood, but also complicated matters for the Wickhams. The morality of the servants was thought to reflect the morality of the mistress. The ton would expect the Wickhams to repudiate any servant the moment she showed such…weakness. If others discovered the Wickhams had harboured a pregnant servant, however inadvertently, they would think it further evidence Lydia was a loose woman. Why does this have to happen, just when I am trying to redeem Lydia’s reputation? She could report Hannah to the housekeeper, and the girl would be turned out of the house, left to wander the streets and unlikely to find a new employer—at least, no employer for respectable work. Or she could help Hannah stay, hiding the truth for as long as possible. If she kept it from Lydia’s knowledge, at least the Wickhams could deny having any part of it, though Mary doubted anyone would believe them. It would make too juicy a piece of gossip to say Mrs Wickham encouraged her maids in illicit love.
Indecision wracked her, but after a moment, Mary’s shoulders slumped in submission. Am I doing this because it is right, or because I am too cowardly to speak up?
“I will not tell, Hannah.” Mary could almost feel the weight of the secret pulling her down, dragging her in some dark undertow, but the hope awakening in Hannah’s eyes almost made it worth it.
Mary had hoped the drifts of snow would persist long enough to discourage Lydia from her rendezvous, but by Thursday, the weather had turned again, and the white barriers that had piled throughout London were melted into soggy mush too high for pattens but no hardship for a carriage. The snow did last long enough to give Mary much time for deep thought over her sister’s situation. She realised that most of her more imaginative schemes were simply too unrealistic. Breaking a carriage wheel required either stealth and skill—or bribery of a servant who possessed such—and the latter posed other risks. Feigning illness might slow Lydia’s exit, but Lydia had no flair for medicines or sickrooms, and very likely she would simply send for a doctor, express her sympathy, and then march off to her rendezvous—late, perhaps, but Lydia never minded lateness. She could insist that she go with Lydia to the gallery, despite all discouragement, but since Mary never insisted on anything, it would no doubt raise Lydia’s suspicions—and then her hackles!
Ideally, she should not even know that I did anything to prevent the meeting. Then there would be no spur for rebellion. As Thursday approached and Mary had no clear solution, dread began to well up within her and drag down her thoughts. She wished she had Lizzy to confer with, but she was not sure which stage the Darcys were at in their journey, and there was not time for a letter to pass back and forth. Mary floundered to come up with anything practicable herself. I could tell some lie to drive them apart. Maybe I could say Mr Cole had done something horrible, something bad enough Lydia would lose interest in him. Given Lydia’s careless acceptance of Mr Wickham’s scandalous past, it would have to be something very dire to discourage her, and Mary could not make murder or mayhem believable of Mr Cole. Or I could tell Mr Cole that Lydia is going to have a baby, and he was interfering at a time when husband and wife should be calm and close. But Mary doubted her ability to lie successfully. It was one thing to keep a secret; that usually meant just not saying anything, which was Mary’s natural inclination any way. But lying required a degree of composure that was beyond her.
In the end, she wound up committing to an uninspiring plan: go off to Mrs Holt’s for the day, thereby lulling Lydia into a false sense of security, and then take a hack from there to the gallery by herself. An unmarried young lady ought not to go unchaperoned, but there was no way to persuade an invalid like Mrs Holt to go anywhere, and at least Mrs Holt’s lazy indifference would keep her from questioning Mary’s actions. If Mary got to Mr Cole early enough—likely, given Lydia’s habitual lateness—she could try again to persuade him to leave Lydia alone. If she got there later, she could at least stick close to the couple and avert any gossip from declaring they were alone. Lydia would fume, but it was better than the alternative.
When Mary arrived at Mrs Holt’s house, a warm breeze gusted down the slushy streets and tugged at her new bonnet, the one that matched her doll’s. Mary had put it on that morning with an air that mingled reverence and determination. Today, I need all the help I can get. A favourite bonnet was not much of an ally, but tightening the ribbons gave Mary a sense of reassurance any way. After she plodded into the house, made the proper greetings, and finally opened the Holt Bible to read, Mary’s nerves settled a little. The warm smile on Mrs Holt’s face soothed her further.
The invalid had enmeshed herself in a pile of wrappings, determined to block out every draught, and her scrawny neck emerging from it gave her the air of a baby bird stretching for a meal in her nest. Despite her doctor’s reassurances, Mrs Holt deemed herself too sick to speak in a natural tone, and breathily whispered more often than not. “My dear Miss Bennet. How good of you to come. I hope you can stay longer than you did last time.”
“Yes, a few hours.” Mary’s breath came in and out more easily, and she felt more relaxed already. Mrs Holt was so gentle, and very little happened in her home during the day—it was a haven of peace, compared to Longbourn. Even the Wickhams’ home often burst with guests or rang with Lydia’s eager voice as she hastened from one activity to another. Mrs Holt pleased herself with books and tisanes until her barrister husband had time to gossip with her. Mr Holt took his wife’s self-indulgent ideas of illness with good humour, and he chatted about the news of the day while patting his wife’s hand before hurrying back to his offices.
I wish I could find that sort of happiness. The thought surprised Mary; she had been so focused on Hannah’s troubles and the Wickhams that she had largely forgotten about her own future. But the affection the Holts had for each other touched her heart, and the life of peace felt doubly seductive after the push and pull of rescuing others. It would be nice to find a doting husband like Mr Holt, and to settle in some quiet place and amuse herself.
Mary read for an hour, Mrs Holt’s birdlike head sometimes nodding into a doze, other times lifting with interest. Occasionally Mrs Holt stopped her to discuss a passage, and Mary felt it was almost like old times, she and Harry Lucas poring over a text and dissecting it. The old occupation cheered her, and she found herself slipping into more casual conversation as well, though Mrs Holt leaned heavily on topics of health.
“I suppose I have found a few foods that disagree with me,” Mary said, after Mrs Holt delineated precisely which foods did or did not alter her condition. “But of course I eat them just the same.” She felt comfortable enough with the invalid to admit more. “I do not like to bother the footmen to bring something different, or to offend my sister by asking her to have other dishes.”
“And s
acrifice your health?” Mrs Holt’s eyes widened.
“I do not think it is as bad as all that.”
Mrs Holt shook her head with just the sententious air Mary used to have. “You should speak to your sister and order the footmen about just as you please. If you do not ensure you obtain what you need for your own body, how will you ensure that you get enough for your other needs? Or anyone else’s, for that matter.”
I just do not need as much as other people, that is all. Mary had always felt a glow of pride at how little she could live on, how much less attention and resources she took up compared to her sisters. It felt like Mrs Holt was trying to take that away. Mrs Holt made Mary’s polite unease at causing the trouble required to get more food sound like—cowardice.
Mrs Holt must have taken Mary’s silence as permission to press. “It may be woman’s lot to bear and forbear, as the preacher says, but we can bear and forbear nothing if we do not have the basic sustenance for health and life.”
“I am not starving, Mrs Holt.”
“But you are harming your own health, and for such foolish reasons!”
Mary had to admit she had been feeling the wear on her body more and more in London. At Longbourn, she ate little and slept little, but there were few active demands made on her. She mostly stayed in the house, mending and reading and keeping out of people’s way. But here, she had been draining her energies with balls, formal visits, time with Lady Lucy, doing errands for Lydia, and trying to repair the Wickhams’ marriage. But that does not mean I have done anything wrong. She still felt a stubborn, hard place inside her, like a fist that refused to relax. Everyone wants me to be different than I am. Lizzy wants me to be clever enough to distract Mr Cole. Mrs Holt wants me to pamper my body. Lydia wants me to charm suitors and speak up. And now I have to save my sister’s marriage from shipwreck, and keep Hannah’s secret…In the mirror over Mrs Holt, Mary caught sight of her own reflection. The young woman in the mirror glared with defiance, and Mary felt shocked at the intensity of the rage within. But the shock did not decrease it.
A Learned Romance Page 12
