“I believe Mr. Ashton was in his cups,” Jane said softly.
“Do you? How could you tell?”
“Charles says he always has a flask with him. His eyes looked bleary, and did you not take note of how quickly he seated himself? He could scarcely stand up! I’m certain he’s sleeping it off right now.”
I giggled, and then remembered I should tell Jane about Mrs. Ashton’s peculiar behavior of late. “His wife has been pressing me about Lydia and Wickham. Again.”
Jane frowned. “In what way?”
“At the picnic she expressed concern for Lydia’s welfare and declared she must ‘long’ for her husband, even asking if Lydia was to return to Newcastle after the birth.”
“That is strange. Poor creature. I believe she and her husband barely speak. I don’t suspect her of malice, though.”
“Of course not, Jane. You think too well of everybody!” I gave her arm a gentle tug. “Allow me to tell you the rest. When I was cutting flowers the other day, she came upon me and asked if Mr. Darcy and Wickham were half brothers.”
“Wherever did she get such an idea? Mr. Darcy would be horrified if that notion got around!”
“She claimed an acquaintance in Bath told her, and although she didn’t credit it, she wanted to know the truth.”
“Well, perhaps that is all it was.”
“Yet why are Lydia and Wickham such objects of interest to her? I had a strong sense she intended to learn what she could for a purpose.”
“But what purpose could she possibly have?”
“I challenged her on that very thing, and she said since her husband paid her little attention, she was very much drawn to other people’s predicaments.”
“Just as I said. Only imagine the audacity of owning to it!”
“I don’t trust her. I fancy she may be hiding something.” I stopped in the middle of the path. “Jane, I think her outwardly foolish manners may be an act.”
“That is pure speculation, dearest!” Jane said, raising her brows at me.
I shrugged. “Hear me out. I think she uses it to cover up her sharp questions. To make them seem innocent and inoffensive. Believe what you like, but surely we must be extra cautious around her.”
“I think you are mistaken, Mary, but in any case, it wouldn’t hurt to turn the conversation to other matters if Lydia comes up again.”
“I only hope Kitty is using discretion. I saw her in animated discussion with both the Ashtons at the picnic.”
Jane sighed, a wispy sound, expressing her doubts about Kitty’s prudence. “I shall speak to her about it.”
Up ahead, Charles called to us. “Ladies, make haste. Our host is in need of your opinion.”
The group was situated on the lawn near the bank of the lake, looking back toward the house. “What do you think of this spot for a temple, or a folly, perhaps?” Mr. Walsh asked. He raised his brows at Jane and me.
“From here, the vista is lovely. One can see the house, wood, and gardens. But would the structure be visible from the house?” Jane asked.
“From the front door, the breakfast parlor, and the library, yes.” He turned to me. “What do you think, Miss Bennet?”
Before I could answer, Kitty broke in. “I love follies and ruins and such! They make the wood seem inhabited by nymphs or . . . or spirits.”
Mr. Walsh smiled at her. “Yes, Kitty. So you’ve said. But now I should like to hear your sister’s opinion.”
Usually, I did not scruple to tell the truth. But I had always given my opinion too freely, and often was sorry for it later. Although I found temples and follies artificial, it would have been horribly rude to say so. “It’s as fine a spot as any, I believe. It would attract all the notice, since there are no trees nearby to draw the eye.”
“Do I detect a note of disapproval, Miss Bennet?”
Caught out, I felt my color rising. “No, sir. That is, I—”
Kitty stepped between us. “La! Mary thinks such things are frippery. She likes everything plain and unadorned.” It was true, but I rather wished she hadn’t felt the need to point it out.
“I would be in raptures over it!” Mrs. Ashton said. Everybody ignored her.
Charles walked off with Jane and Amanda toward a wildflower garden vibrant with spring colors. From where we were standing, I could see cowslips, marsh marigold, rosemary, and flowering currant. A semicircle of lilac bushes bordered the rear of the garden. Jane called to Kitty, who gave a frustrated grunt before leaving Mr. Walsh and me alone.
I wished the earth would swallow me up, right after I pushed Kitty into the lake.
“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Walsh said, “you may be honest with me. I promise not to take offense.”
“Sir, it is your home and park. My opinion is of no consequence.”
He watched me, hands clasped behind his back. “You are very wrong if you believe that,” he said. “Come, tell me the truth.”
What else was I to do, since he’d already guessed? “Very well. What Kitty said is true. I am not fond of temples, except for the original ones built by the Greeks and Romans. I think they are ostentatious.”
He surprised me by laughing, a resonating sound that seemed to well up from his chest. I grinned ruefully in response. “Well said, Miss Bennet. You’ve taken me down a notch. I’ve often thought the same thing myself, but believed my mother would enjoy it. That is why I was considering it.”
“If it would please your mother, then you should proceed with it, by all means. That is probably the best reason to build such a structure.”
Humor flickered in his eyes. “Have you seen Greek and Roman temples then, Miss Bennet?”
“Of course not. Only my father has quite an extensive library, you see.” My cheeks burned.
“I do see.” He offered his arm. I accepted it, and we strolled toward the others. The heady scent of the lilacs filled the air. “Shall we go on? Let’s take the gravel paths through the woods. I wish to show you the bridge I had constructed over the stream.” He paused a moment, then said softly, “I hope you won’t find it too ornate, Mary.”
I couldn’t stop a tiny chuckle sounding at the back of my throat. When I looked up at him, I realized he was laughing softly. I looked away, and it was a long while before I realized he’d called me Mary.
When we came to the bridge, everybody remarked on its simplicity of style. Ha! Jane winked at me. The stream rippled beneath the stone structure, seemingly in no hurry on its route to the lake. By now, clouds obscured the sun, and the wood had taken on a mysterious aura. I moved away from Mr. Walsh to gain a better view.
“Your wood reminds me of a scene from Shakespeare,” I said, spinning around.
“That’s what I was thinking, too,” Kitty said. I held back a smile, since I was quite certain my sister had never read a single line of the Bard.
Our host glanced at her. “Enlighten us, Miss Kitty. Which play does it put you in mind of?”
An awkward pause ensued, and I heard a barely muffled giggle from Mrs. Ashton. “I-I’m not sure—”
A moment ago I would have she said deserved her comeuppance, but now that it was upon her, I was sorry for her. “She was thinking of As You Like It, were you not, Kitty?”
“Or A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” said Jane, who must have been feeling the same as I.
“Yes,” Kitty said, looking relieved. “Both of those. I think.” To my surprise, she caught my eye, and I recognized in her odd half smile an expression of gratitude.
“Ah,” Mr. Walsh said, letting the matter drop. He was not a man who lacked sensibility, yet his comment to Kitty seemed a deliberate attempt to shame her. Why would he have wished to do so? I considered this as we wound our way toward the house but could arrive at no definitive answer. Could he have wished to embarrass her, as she had embarrassed me? That was an idiotic notion if
ever there was one, yet it pleased me to think it might be so.
Chapter 9
Mr. Carstairs joined our party for dinner. “Andrew is the youngest vicar in all of England,” Mrs. Walsh said, looking fondly upon her nephew. I wondered if she knew this to be true or if it was merely speculation on her part.
He blushed. “One of the youngest,” he said, correcting her.
“Our vicar is the opposite,” Kitty said. “He is so exceedingly ancient, sometimes I fear he will totter right out of the pulpit onto the floor!”
I winced, but Mr. Carstairs took no offense, smiling along with my sister.
“I’m rather fond of the old man,” Charles said, “since he performed our wedding ceremony.” He and Jane smiled at one another. Sometimes it was hard to bear such wedded bliss.
The meal was simple fare, turbot followed by beef and spring vegetables. I ate a little of everything, saving room for a small piece of pound cake. Afterward, the ladies retired to the sitting room while the men partook of their port.
As soon as we entered, Kitty approached me. “Mary, will you play some dance tunes? I do long to dance!”
“Mr. Ashton will want to play cards,” said his wife.
Jane looked sympathetic. “Perhaps he will agree to a few dances first. Mary?”
“Yes, of course.” I supposed I would not be dancing, then. Apparently I would have to wait for the Pennington ball to stand up with Mr. Walsh.
I wandered over to the instrument and began to look through the sheets of music. Mrs. Walsh entered the room and, when she heard what we were about, insisted on playing.
“Miss Bennet, you must take part in the dancing. I have no desire to do so and am perfectly happy to remain at the pianoforte.” She smiled warmly. To refuse would have been rude.
“Thank you, ma’am.” While waiting for the men, I picked up a book lying on the table, a novel as it turned out, called The History of Sir Charles Grandison. I had never heard of it.
The men wandered in, and Kitty informed them of the plan.
“Good God! Must we?” asked Mr. Ashton. “We only have four couples. Where’s the fun in that?”
“Sit out, if you wish,” Charles said.
“Excellent advice,” John Ashton replied. His wife looked put out but joined him at the card table.
“Grimstock, then?” Mrs. Walsh asked. “It’s best for three couples.”
Everybody nodded, and I sighed with relief. It was an easy dance that even I could perform with grace.
Kitty was gazing expectantly toward our host, who, without hesitation, went to her and said, “May I have the honor?” I had no justification to feel hurt by this, but the fact that they simply seemed to know they would dance together stung.
Charles said, “Well, then, I shall have the pleasure of dancing with my wife.”
That left me with Mr. Carstairs. “Miss Bennet? You’ll have to put the book down, I think.” I smiled sheepishly, not even realizing I was still clutching it.
The music started, and we doubled forward and back, then performed the set and turn. Kitty and Henry were in front of us. She had always been a fine dancer, and he danced well, too, though he seemed rather to be going through the motions than truly enjoying himself. Mr. Carstairs, to my surprise, was exceptionally light on his feet. I actually caught Kitty watching him once or twice.
As soon as one dance finished, we barely had time to catch our breath before Mrs. Walsh struck up another tune. Varying the steps, or the order, made it seem like we weren’t doing the same dance over and over. I wished we would vary the partners. The nearest I came to Henry was when we went through the arches, but that happened so quickly it didn’t count.
And then we were done, quite worn out and ready for refreshment. I thanked Mr. Carstairs and wandered over to where Mrs. Walsh, assisted by Jane, was pouring tea. I accepted a cup, picked up my book, and retreated to a chair set a little away from the others.
Suddenly, the air stirred, and Mr. Walsh was making his way toward me, his eyes never drifting from my face.
“Whist, anyone?” Mr. Ashton called out. “And some brandy, Walsh?”
Henry, ever the polite host, veered abruptly back toward the others. He poured a brandy for his guest and chatted amiably with his cousin while his mother served them tea. Kitty and Charles had joined the Ashtons at the whist table. I waited, my foot tapping the floor. I wanted Henry to hurry back to me. And I wanted him to keep his distance from me. Why was it that every time I was convinced it was Kitty in whom he was interested, he began to take notice of me? It was most vexing.
To distract myself, I opened the copy of Sir Charles Grandison and read the beginning paragraphs twice through without absorbing a single word. And then Henry was there, lowering himself onto the chair next to me.
He glanced at the book in my hands. “Do you read novels, Miss Bennet?”
“No, I don’t. That is to say, I never have, but I might.” Keep to simple answers, Mary. “No, I don’t” would have sufficed.
“Are you one of those people who think them frivolous and lacking in moral value?” He sipped his tea, not taking his eyes off me.
“Not at all. I read mainly what is in my father’s library, and there are no novels among his personal collection.”
“I shall lend you one of Richardson’s earlier volumes, Clarissa. I am still reading this one, which is quite different. My mother is a great novel reader, and I read chiefly what she recommends.” He set his cup on a table and leaned forward, hands resting on his thighs. “You may borrow from my collection anytime.”
“Thank you. I may take you up on your offer whenever I’m visiting Jane and Charles. Novels will be a welcome change for me.”
“How much longer do you plan to remain in Derbyshire?”
“A few more weeks, I should think. Our youngest sister is currently at Longbourn awaiting the birth of a child. Her husband’s regiment—”
“Yes, Charles told me of her circumstances.”
This was awkward. How much had Charles told him? Most likely the same story we were telling everybody. “Jane and I will be expected at home when the child is born.”
“Why you rather than Kitty?”
Shocked at his rather impertinent question and not at all certain what answer to give, I stammered out a completely nonsensical response. “It is only that Jane knows about babies and I . . .” Oh, Lord, what am I meant to say? “My mother believes you will offer for Kitty any day now, whereas I am the designated nursemaid”?
Aware of my distress, he quickly said, “It is of no consequence, Miss Bennet. But I shall be sorry when you go.”
All at once my cheeks flamed, and at the same time, a jolt of pleasure so great I could scarcely contain it stabbed through me. I looked down, afraid to meet his eyes for fear they would show mockery, or even worse, sarcasm.
“Mary,” he said softly. “Will you look at me?”
Shyly, I glanced up at his face.
“It is neither a good time nor place to express what is in my heart, but if I may, for now, I should like to say . . . I admire you very much.”
I felt an irrepressible smile steal across my face and for once was bold enough to fix my eyes on his. What else was in his heart that he could not express?
A footman entered the room, breaking the spell cast between us. He hurried over to Mr. Walsh and handed him a folded paper.
“Sir, an express for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley has come.”
“Ah. Thank you, Harris. Pardon me, Miss Bennet.”
He rose and carried the note to Charles, who said, “It’s from Elizabeth, my dear.” Jane blanched but remained outwardly calm.
“I’m afraid we must take our leave,” she said, rising. “I hate to curtail the pleasures of our evening, but family matters summon us home.”
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Walsh said,
“I do hope your child is well.”
“Perfectly so, ma’am. It is nothing to do with David. Thank you most heartily for a pleasant day and evening.”
The others had seen the message delivered and heard that we must depart. “Oh, mightn’t we stay for more dancing?” Kitty said to Jane.
Mr. Carstairs stepped in. “Another time, Miss Kitty. We will have many other opportunities.” Kitty clamped her mouth shut, thank goodness, and simply bade him good night.
We gathered wraps and reticules and waited outside for the chaise. “Would you like to ride with the ladies, Bingley?” Mr. Walsh asked. “I can ride your mount over tomorrow if you prefer.”
Not until then did I understand he wouldn’t be returning to High Tor with us. I had assumed he would be riding alongside Charles, as he had done that morning. I recalled now that there had been a bag strapped to the top of the chaise. My tranquility was shattered. When would I see him again?
Charles declined his offer, no doubt preferring to be anywhere other than in the carriage with the ladies. Due to Mrs. Ashton’s presence, there would be no opportunity to speculate as to the contents of Lizzy’s message.
“Kitty,” Jane said, “you will ride in the chaise with us.” Her tone brooked no argument, and for once, Kitty complied without a fuss.
Mr. Walsh had disappeared, and so I shook hands with his mother. “It was most kind of you to invite us, ma’am. Thank you.”
She enfolded my hand in both of hers. “Everything my son told me of you is true, Miss Bennet. I am hopeful of our seeing a great deal more of each other.”
Everything? More astonishment. “I hope so, too.” Should I have said that? For what, precisely, am I hoping?
We were waiting now only to say good night to our host, who at last dashed toward us carrying a book. The one he promised to lend me, I thought.
“Will you wait a moment, Miss Bennet?” he said after bidding everyone else adieu. His mother, I noticed, had unobtrusively withdrawn into the house, taking Mr. Carstairs with her. I could see Kitty ogling us from the carriage, and perhaps Mr. Walsh saw too. He touched my arm, drawing me into the shadows, where we couldn’t be observed by anybody. “Here is my copy of Clarissa. After you’ve had time to read it, will you share your views with me?”
The Pursuit of Mary Bennet Page 7
