The Winterleys showed all of their usual goodness, in frequent invitations that those residing at the parsonage should dine at the great house, but as a fortnight passed and Mary felt herself grow still larger and more uncomfortable, she asked that she be excused from the next dinner. Catherine and Elizabeth both offered to remain at the parsonage with her, but David insisted he should be the one to stay with his wife, and thus everyone else was sent to dinner.
Mary had been feeling particularly tired that day, and spent the time after her family departed lying on the chaise in the parlour, idly reading Caleb, for she felt too tired to even attempt anything from the work-basket. A momentary strangeness overcame her, and she rose from the chaise, felt her baby give a tremendous kick, and then became aware of an excessive dampness, running down her legs.
“I think – I think something is happening,” she said weakly to David, who had been sitting and quietly reading with her.
This statement roused him to immediate action, and within a few minutes, servants had been dispatched for Winterley Hall and the local midwife, and Mary was being gently assisted up the stairs to her bedchamber, where the dampness continued to trickle down her legs. When it had ceased, Clara, the maid, helped Mary change out of her dress and into a clean nightgown, all the while a series of pains around Mary’s midsection growing from faint to significant.
The midwife arrived before everyone else and provided some relief to Mary merely through her matter-of-fact presence. Wincham was an old-fashioned neighbourhood: Mrs. Potter had attended to every birth for nigh on twenty years, including all of Lady Winterley’s children, and there had never been any question of having anyone else to attend Mary. Mrs. Potter pronounced all going as it ought, ordered the placement of the birthing chair, wash-stand and towels, then produced a workbag and a pair of knitting needles, and proceeded to make use of them.
It was left to David, Mrs. Bennet, Catherine, Elizabeth, and to Mary’s surprise, Lady Winterley, to distract Mary with their conversation in the few hours that followed, while Elizabeth’s maid and Clara prepared the room. When finally the pains grew exceedingly severe, Mrs. Potter instructed that Mary should get into the chair. She did so, assisted by numerous hands, then was seized by a pain more substantial than any she had felt so far, and cried out for the first time.
Mrs. Potter put her head beneath Mary’s skirts, but Mary could not protest, for she was wracked by the most intense pain that had come thus far. She felt David grasp her hand tightly, she heard Mrs. Potter saying, “that’s it, child, push now, push with all ye’ve got,” and the more distant encouragement of her family and Lady Winterley.
She felt it, felt every strange, wonderful moment of her child’s emerging, and then heard that child’s cry as Mrs. Potter came out from under her nightgown holding the baby. “‘Tis a girl,” Mrs. Potter said, “a girl, fine and healthy.”
Mary had never felt any particular concern over the sex of her child – David had no property that was to be inherited, no entailed estate – and so the most important part of this statement to her was that the child was fine and healthy. She felt a deeply maternal surge of impatience, while Mrs. Potter tended to all that needed to be tended to, but then, finally, the little girl was given over to her mother. Mary held her child tight against her chest, and thought of all the changes her life had seen in the last year or so, to have fallen in love and married such a good, steady man as she had, to have taken up her place here in Wincham and done as much as she could to help the parish through such a year, and now to hold her child, to be a mother.
She became aware of another set of pains within her midsection, and realised this must be the afterbirth. In a strangely calm voice, she stated what was happening, glad this part of the birth should not linger on and scare everyone as it had last winter with Lizzy. This part was over quickly and far less painfully than what had come before, and after Mrs. Potter had inspected what had emanated from her and pronounced it to have been a good birth, easy as kiss my hand, everyone else save David quietly left the bedchamber.
Mary gave the baby over to her husband, stood, and made her way on quavering legs to the bed, where someone had thought to pull down the covers. She laid down there and said, “I think I should see if she wishes to nurse.”
“Of course,” David said, handing her their daughter and then very tenderly bestowing a kiss upon her cheek.
It was a further strangeness, to Mary, to endeavour to get her child to suckle her breast, but after some awkwardness, this was finally managed. It was only when the baby was nursing that David said, “Should you like to name her Mary, after you?”
“There can be some difficulty, I think, to have two people with the same name in one house,” said Mary, thinking of how quickly Elizabeth Bingley’s name had been shortened to Bess, to differentiate her from her aunt while they had both resided at Pemberley. “I had been thinking Marianne, after your mother, would be a good name for a daughter. Similar to mine, but not precisely the same.”
He smiled. “That is exceedingly good of you, Mary. If you wish it, I would be very pleased with that name.”
Little Marianne Stanton had by now finished her first meal in the world, and upon being held against her mother’s shoulder, coughed up a little of it, then seemed content. Her mother, though exhausted, was still more content. Before she had met David, Mary had often considered her future, and had generally felt herself bound for spinsterhood. To have met him, to have most happily married him was one thing, but it was another matter entirely to have created this tiny, beautiful little life with him, and what she felt at that moment was the purest bliss Mary had ever known.
Both baby and mother were exhausted by the infant’s journey into the world, and when Marianne fell asleep, Mrs. Bennet took her gently from Mary and whispered, “I’ll lay her down in her cradle. You ought to rest, too, Mary. You did well. The first one is always the hardest.”
“Thank you, mama,” Mary said, struggling to remember the last time – if ever – her mother had ever said such a thing to her.
Mrs. Bennet laid Marianne down in the cradle, returned to her daughter, and kissed her forehead, whispering, “Oh, how I hope you do not have four more.”
Mary fell asleep with a wry smile on her countenance and slept until she was awakened by soft cries from the baby. It was Elizabeth who attended her now; she was rocking Marianne and attempting to soothe her, but to no avail.
“I believe she needs to nurse,” Elizabeth said. “We just changed her a quarter-hour ago.”
Mary nodded, and Elizabeth helped her position the baby, then slipped out of the room. David came in then, smiling gently at the scene before him, and said, “I’ve sent an express to my father, informing him of Marianne’s birth.”
“Oh – do you think he will wish to visit?” Mary asked. While there had not been an irrevocable breach between them and The Honourable Richard Stanton, as there had been between Matthew and their father, nor could it be said that they were all on particularly good terms since that event had taken place. Mr. Stanton had wished them to take sides between father and middle son, and David had refused to do so. They had not seen him since, and his letters were sparse, although David said he had never been a frequent correspondent. Nor an affectionate one, Mary presumed.
“Not any time soon,” David said. “He will be more inclined to take an interest in her once she is old enough to receive his instruction on spiritual and moral matters.”
Mary was not sure whether to be relieved that he would not visit now – in addition to not wanting to receive him after such an ordeal, he was certainly not on good terms with the Darcys, given how he had treated Georgiana – or concerned over this future moral and spiritual advisement.
Sensing her concern, he laid his hand on her cheek. “She is our daughter, and she will be raised according to our Christian ideals.”
Mary nodded, relieved at his affirmation, and at the thought that David had somehow suffered his father’s instr
uction for many years, and yet still had managed to grow up to be an excellent man in spite of it. Surely their daughter could handle some few strictures, when under the protection of her parents.
+++
In those first days following the birth, Mary felt herself exceedingly grateful for the presence of her family. Although her birth had been deemed easy by Mrs. Potter, she still felt herself quite exhausted, and it was a relief to know that her mother, Lizzy, or Catherine should be watching over little Marianne, and waking Mary should the baby need to nurse.
David took his own shifts in watching over the baby, although his manner of doing so was far more stoic than that of Mary’s female relations. It was, then, a great surprise to Mary to wake one morning and find him standing at the window, holding their child and silently weeping.
“David,” she gasped, rising from the bed and rushing over to them in her panic. “Whatever is the matter? Is she ill?”
“No, she is perfectly well,” he said, his countenance looking very pained. He bowed his head, and his tears seemed to deepen. “Perfectly well, as are you, thank God.”
Mary was typically of more staid emotions, but seeing her husband thus affected, she followed him readily into tears. “Then what has upset you so?”
“It is nothing,” he said, taking a deep, shaky breath. “Give me a moment, and I shall be better.”
“Whatever it is, I wish you would tell me,” she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder.
He looked back at her and seemed to realise what worry his reticence had caused. “It has to do with Isabel.”
“Oh. I still wish you would tell me, if it has grieved you so.”
“It – it is not grief. I hardly even know how to describe such an emotion, such a mixture of emotions. You are the only person living who should know of this, aside from myself,” he said, then seemed seized with reluctance to speak further.
Mary did not know what to say; she felt a certain strangeness, as she always had, in speaking of the woman who had held his heart first, who had preceded her as mistress of this house. Yet although she was discomfited, she encouraged him to continue.
“She – she was carrying a child when she died,” he said. “She was only a few months along, but it was far enough for us to make plans, to feel hope of our life together as a family. I thought I was going to have everything, and then – and then I had nothing. No wife, no child, no future, or so I thought.”
Mary better understood what he meant, about feeling an indescribable mixture of emotions, and felt tears threaten her eyes again. He had lost everything and then regained it, but with another, and he would always feel that loss; it was right that he felt that loss. She rubbed his shoulder. “I – I don’t really know what to say, but I am glad you told me.”
He looked back to her again and nodded. “I am glad I told you, too. I promise I shall not make a habit of it, for I understand it must be – strange – for you.”
“I don’t mind if you talk about her, sometimes. I would not like for there to be a part of your life you feel you cannot speak of to me.” Mary usually did not feel the difference in their ages, but she felt it acutely, now; she could not describe her upbringing at Longbourn as precisely happy, but it had been comparably sheltered, and she had never experienced such things as he had, such pain and loss as he had.
“That is very good of you, Mary. I fear sometimes that I have not given you all you might have had – you could have married someone with less of a history, someone who would not have required you to retrench your household in your first year of marriage.”
“Oh, please do not say that – I have gained so much from our marriage, from knowing you. In the last year, because of you, because of my role here, I have come to truly understand what it means to be a good Christian,” said Mary. “I know it has not been easy for our parishioners, to suffer what they have, but for me this has been the best time of my life, to be able to do such good, and to have you and little Marianne.”
David smiled at the baby, and then his wife. “She is perfect, is she not?”
“Yes, I believe she is.”
Chapter 25
It was, perhaps, too much to ask that Lady Catherine should avoid them. The Smiths were successful in avoiding her, living quietly in an hotel during the se’nnight they spent in London, but they were given a mere three days of marital privacy at Rosings before she made her appearance. Those three days had been full ones – they could not have been otherwise, with the couple taking up their residence at such a place.
Upon entering the house, the mistress had been worried that she might find the most concerning of her theories had been correct: that something about Rosings itself had caused the ongoing illness that had comprised so much of her life. Yet after returning and establishing fully her claim upon the house, Anne had found that her health continued as it had before, and could only conclude that if it had been Rosings making her ill, it had been the inhabitants of Rosings – namely her mother and Mrs. Jenkinson – who were at fault, not the house itself. Generally, the servants were all too ready to abide by her commands, although the butler and a few others had done so in a manner that must rouse some suspicion, and Anne had determined that anyone failing in loyalty to the Smiths would be replaced, if need be.
Mrs. Jenkinson had still been there, to Anne’s surprise, and had shown intent to resume coddling her charge in precisely the same manner she had been used to do. On the evening of the Smiths’ arrival, however, Anne had informed Mrs. Jenkinson with every stoutness of constitution she could muster that her services would no longer be necessary. The next morning, plagued by guilt – surely Mrs. Jenkinson had contributed to Anne’s ill health, but she had been acting on the orders of Lady Catherine – she had made provisions that her former companion should be pensioned off as a reward for her years of service.
Of her husband’s immediate duties, she need not have worried. Thomas’s first conference with Leyland had left the steward with a happy lightness of countenance, to finally meet with someone in a position of some authority over the estate and have him understand not only the most rudimentary aspects of agriculture, but even to express experience in such crops and techniques as were beyond Leyland’s experience.
“He sounds just like Mr. Darcy, does he,” said Leyland to the housekeeper, “with his drainage and his mandatory rotations. And I don’t care if everyone calls him a mushroom and all that, for he’s as like as anyone ever was to get us back to the returns we used to have, and I’m glad enough to call him master for such.”
The housekeeper, who had immediately understood that Anne Smith was not like as to make such demands – often nigh impossible demands – as her mother had upon the household, agreed readily that the Smiths were a very preferable master and mistress. If the butler, Burford, and his few loyal footmen thought elsewise, they were to be left alone in this opinion, for the rest of the staff greatly preferred the rightful heir.
The interviews the Smiths conducted with their staff took much of those first three days, but Mr. Smith was also required to make some of his time available for that custom of receiving the gentlemen of the neighbourhood as they called upon him. The first of the callers, as might be expected, was Herbert Ramsey, who was finally able to express his gratitude over the living but was informed that Mr. Smith could not be given the credit for it. Anne called upon Mr. Ramsey the next day, however, was the recipient of an appropriate level of gratitude, and found herself very pleased with the man.
This was that fourth day of the Smiths’s residence, and Anne returned home to learn from Mr. Burford that Sir Robert Avery was calling upon her husband. Anne had no apprehension regarding her husband’s manners, but if ever she was to be concerned over how a call would go, it was this one. With her mother no longer in residence, Sir Robert was undoubtedly the leader of the neighbourhood, and his opinion of Mr. Smith would go a long way in establishing or destroying the master of Rosings in society. Anne gazed beyond Burford to the two
footmen standing on either side of the door and frowned; she found it much too formal and wasteful to have two men standing there all day like statues, in addition to those attending the family in other rooms, but upon putting this to Burford, he had protested vigorously that this was the way things had always been done. Not desiring an argument at the time, she had let the matter go, and now wished she had not. Burford must be made to accept that things would be different than they had been in her mother’s time.
Anne was about to enter the drawing-room to await the end of the call, when sounds beyond the entrance-hall indicated the two gentlemen had left Mr. Smith’s study and were walking thither. She lingered, hoping to get a sense of how the call had gone, and her first glimpse of the men’s countenances seemed to indicate each was pleased by the other’s company. She had no more time for such thoughts, however, for it was then that Lady Catherine stormed in, looking very red in the face and pointing to Mr. Smith.
“Anne! You – married – that – nobody!” she exclaimed. “You, the granddaughter of an earl, are now to be called Anne Smith? I shall not allow it. It shall be annulled. I did not give my consent!”
Anne did not know how word of their arriving at Rosings had reached her mother, although she supposed there were a few too many gossips within the neighbourhood to hope no-one would write to Lady Catherine of the news that the Smiths had taken up residence there.
“I have married Mr. Smith,” said Anne, sounding far calmer than she felt. Her health had improved still further since her wedding day, and she was glad of it, that she should have the strength she would need to stand up to her mother. “It has been many years since I have been of age, and you were never my guardian anyway, so your consent was neither needed nor desired.”
A Season Lost Page 45
