Chapter 25: Sorrow part 1

'I b-believe your dress has i-impressed Lady Isabel herself, for, she t-told me when we were… congratulating Sir Nordstrom how h-highly remarkable the design of the gown was, though s-slightly too much for her wishes.'

Mr. Toddler was placed firmly across her seat and try as she might, Mary could find no escape from his dry attempts at over-friendly conversation.

He was bent upon servicing her with his best compliments, though those half-uttered and badly expressed. Mary did not give any credit to Lady Nordstrom's actual approval of the dress, for she had seen some deep lines on her forehead whenever the lady had looked at her. But, let it not be considered that those lines were formed from disgust at the impropriety of the attire for the occasion. No, it was more likely that Lady Isabel was jealous that Mary could attract so much attention with such feeble looks.

The large party and the boisterous guests made Mary feel very uneasy after an hour of having to stand Mr. Toddler's unpolished manners, as well.

He was talking incessantly of his new employment, something which himself and Lady Nordstrom had come up with. The lady had many country dogs at her estate in Dorset and she had, for some time, thought of making use of them by selling them at a reasonable price. They were well-bred dogs, of high pedigree and touching beauty, thus she hoped Mr. Toddler could assist her in finding rightful owners for them.

When Mary, out of politeness, asked why this task was undertaken by him and why the dogs were no longer necessary at the estate, he immediately offered to explain in most courteous words dedicated to Lady Nordstrom that she had decided to turn her house in a shelter for the impecunious people in the country. He was the right man to deal with this since his prolonged experience with affairs of money was famed.

Mary could not help thinking this was not just a noble plan on behalf of the lady and only later did she discover the house would not serve to be the residence of actual destitute people, but of an honourable yet very modest family, whose patriarch was the parson of the village. The Lady would claim rent and Mr. Toddler did not shy away from indicating the sum which was quite alarming and would be alarming even to the Bennets.

She would have given Mr. Toddler looks of deep disapproval for trying to pass this as charity, but the mention of a parson brought dear memories of reverend Abbot and fresh tears threatened to wet her face, were it not for the sudden appearance of Anita close to her chairs, whispering something in her ear.

Mary grew suddenly paler and even Mr. Toddler looked at her with concern, but she excused herself hastily, rising from her chair and producing some feeble excuse of being quite ill and meaning to go home.

'M-Miss Bennet, let me then t-take you with my own phaeton…' he instantly offered, but she was gone before he could utter the invitation, for one could lose oneself easily in the bustle of the room.

Anita, Mary soon discovered, was quite useful when she was not making cheeky observations or giving not so benign a smile to those she thought superior only in fortune. Her wily way of passing through the crowd and guiding Mary in such a way as not to be seen was explanatory. She was probably used to such subterfuges.

Mary soon found herself in the servants' quarter which was comprised of several white-door rooms, whence burst young girls in fresh aprons, looking like doves, scared away by some great hawk and indeed, the hawk was a very strict butler, who ran up and down the corridor, casting side-long glances and sneering at any ruffled waistcoat. This quarter was so large and so impressive and continued into other small laundrettes and latrines, that Mary was sure that her own, modest home could not compare.

After some toil they found the larders which opened to the kitchens which led very conveniently to the door of the back garden. Many a scullery maid stopped to stare at this scandalous appearance of a young lady, so elegantly dressed, so well looking, being cast away, out the back door, like a common thief.

When Mary and Anita shut the door behind them and stepped out into the cool breeze of a spring night, the former could rest her eye upon some lovely shrubs of honeysuckles and cast a glance towards the moon above, which, though not full or wistful, gave enough beams for them to cross the path to the wicket safely.

When out in the street, Mary's attention was arrested by a figure coming out from safe darkness, conjuring its substance out of thin air. His cloak billowed behind him in a fastidious way, his look was active, his nostrils dilated, his eyes stormy. He was not running, but his figure alluded to some exertions on his part to get there fast enough.

When she turned, she noticed Anita was no longer by her side. If this were indeed a work by Sir Scott, perhaps the maiden, gathering a young man was approaching, would leave her mistress some intimacy and withdraw in her humble abode to weep over her mother's picture or sigh for her own cavalier.

This clearly not being the case, Anita had simply hidden herself in the back garden, not wishing the conversation that would take place to be stifled by her presence, thus depriving her of fresh and entertaining gossip.

Everyone can guess that the hasty arrival was that of James Prowler, beseeching not a lovely maiden to come have a walk with him down the path of roses, but to conquer that lady's pride and make her bend under his rule. The recompense for her assistance would be great, for he had already settled in his mind that Mary Bennet was like a lioness, capable of many and charming in her own way, accomplished enough to make him blithe.

Happy and perverse thoughts he cherished in his mind as he approached the waiting figure in the shining red gown, but many of these thoughts were dispersed upon seeing her in her true form, just five feet away.

Mary looked at him warily and fidgeted with the folds of her dress as she shuddered involuntarily from the cold. He stepped up, bowed solemnly and took off his hat, but his gaze was arrested upon her figure and, though Mary was blushing most conspicuously, he would not tear his gaze away.

James stood for a good three minutes doing nothing but observing and admiring. He had in front of him a young woman whom he had never seen in such light as tonight, in such vigorous looks, in such healthy blush, in such rounded perfection. Perfection here meant Mary Bennet had achieved the impossibility of being quite pretty.

However, to him she was not beautiful, she could not be and therein lay the sorrow. He was enchanted, in raptures, but not entirely captivated as not to notice her obvious pain. Perhaps this was better, for after those three minutes, he decided to act and he cleared his throat loudly.

Finding words on such occasions was no easy task and he held his own hat undecided.

'I see Anita has followed my instructions as I demanded of her,' he said at length.

His voice was very warm and agitated, half-worried, half-nervous.

'Yes, she…she was of service,' Mary said confused. 'Sir, I meant to come here, but do not think that…'

'I was worried you might change your mind, but come, let's have nothing of it, take my hand and I shall lead you to my carriage…' he started.

'No, Sir, I'm afraid…I'm afraid that cannot be done.'

He had already placed his firm hand on her shoulder and she drew back. He stood obfuscated.

'Mr. Prowler, look at me. What think you?' she suddenly asked.

'What think I? I cannot even begin to describe how lovely you appear! Margaret has done wonders with the dress,' was his not so checked reply. He had not intended to be so loud, but her bosom being lifted under her breath so close to him produced some effect on him.

'Then you see me as pretty?' she asked again looking sad.

'You have never looked better. The dress becomes you so well, Miss Bennet.'

'Does it? I rather thought I was unsuited to this…' she said pointing at her attire.

'Unsuited? No, I should think not. In fact, I see this is your true light, Miss Bennet. Grace you already possess, it shall do greatly.'

'You are mistaken, Sir…I have not grace…' she uttered stepping away again.

'Your modesty is endearing, but it comes at such times…I'd rather face your stirring vanity, in such moments, for we need to make haste Miss Bennet. Theodore is waiting for us in the Ball Room. Do me the honour of taking my hand and…' he trailed off, trying not to sound too impatient.

Mary looked up, slightly invigorated, enticed to reply.

'Your compliments are as manufactured as my looks and it appears to me this has been a terrible mistake,' she said coldly turning.

James stared at her alarmed and quickly pressed his hand over hers.

'Miss Bennet, I meant not to upset you, my admiration is always encumbered by some folly of my wit…but you are what you are and…'

'Yet this is not who I am, Sir. This is not me,' she said a tone louder, encompassing her figure with her hands.

'What, pray, do you mean?' he inquired, his grip not relenting, his eyes fixed on hers.

'I mean that you have fooled yourself and me in return! This is such a spectacle of drollness to you, is it not? But not I…I will not assist in this thoughtless scheme!'

'What…what speak you? You agreed to help my friend, you know on this may depend the happiness of your very friend, Miss Darcy!'

'Then let me be selfish, unkind, unjust, but not thoughtless and impudent!' she said angered.

'And you speak now? At such time? When Theodore is risking…'

'Theodore ought not have committed such things that can be taken advantage of now. He also, should have assisted his sister in establishing better principles of conduct,' she spoke pained.

'And you! You speak all this without heart, without compassion. I see, you recite once more the sacred words of some Wesleyan theory you have memorised from the books you profess to understand,' he replied harshly.

To such offence given to her amour propre Mary could neither reply, but could neither submit. She wrenched her hand free and turned quickly to leave.

James was fast on her steps and since Mary Bennet could hardly take some exercise without tiring herself and dampening her spirits, her running was something to be looked upon with pity.

He would soon gain on her tracks it would seem, but fortune smiled upon this distraught lady, for her, if not staunch, at least, sensible maiden arrived to save her from the hands of an unwanted suitor. It was Anita indeed, who having proceeded out of the shrubberies was close at hand to aid Mary.

She quickly called Mr. Gardiner's coach driver to come and collect his master's niece and in doing so, opened the door for the young woman and quickly stepped in herself, as the vehicle scurried off, leaving behind a livid James Prowler.

A reasonable man as was Mr. Prowler would not lose his head in such conditions, even when his plans were turned to dust, when his case fell to shreds, when his friend was in peril. He did, however, stare dejectedly after the carriage, truly hit by the scorn he had shown and the coldness she had given in return. They were good friends, were they not? What had gone so wrong? This question dwelled in his mind as he retraced his steps.

Mary looked out the window into the night and did not even dare to turn and face Anita, who, considering the novelty of the situation, was sitting right next to her mistress. Servants were not to be seated so well, neither was Mary supposed to be so permissive, but at times like these, she could not even utter a word of gratitude to the person she thought was surely in the hands of the crafty lawyer.

She was relieved, she could not hide it and ashamed. But let the guilt of having disappointed Georgiana or Theodore subside, let her sense of propriety win, let her fear overcome her and felicitate her on such firm refusal.

She would suffer now a little more and be done with for ever. How selfish this sounded to her, yet her conscience was a mistress herself, who did not like to be corrected.

Weary and sad she arrived home and was taken by Anita to her chamber. She guessed the maid would turn and leave, but she drew two chairs and sat herself across Mary with such courage that surprised her even in this state.

'I must admit, I don't think of ye greatly, missus.'

Mary only stared.

'I think ye are not truthful to yourself… but ye are good enough to see evil.'

Mary decided she needed to speak, at least to reinstate her authority.

'Such opinions you cherish are not my concern, Anita. I can only be grateful to you for your kind assistance…though I am somewhat surprised you allied with me,' she said hastily.

The last words made the maid smile mischievously.

'Ye are a woman, missus. We fend fer ourselves…'

'We might, but men have great powers over our minds sometimes, that make us forget our duties.'

Anita cast her a glance that seemed to say "It might have happened to ye, missus" but Mary decidedly ignored it and went on.

'Nevertheless, I suppose you expect something in return…'

'Ye might be surprised, but methinks ye did what was best, missus,' Anita continued pensively. 'Ye do not wish to mingle with Morel and his people…nasty sort.'

'I suppose you know…'

'Aye. Who doesn't? But missus said I'd like something in return. I would.'

Mary nodded annoyed, but upon seeing that perverse smile on Anita's lips again, she remembered her burning curiosity as to who her grim lover in the alley had been. Seizing this opportunity when they were both alone to inquire, she paused and spoke.

'Anita, I know you are having an affair with someone.'

She looked at her disconcerted and folded her hands over her chest. 'What do ye mean, missus?'

'I've seen you with a man…' she said bowing her head in shame, though she should have been the one holding it up.

'Oh! I see now…I see…' Anita mumbled embarrassed, though her arched brow did not relent.

'Was…was he one that you loved?'

'I love no one in that manner, missus.'

'I see…then he was someone you entertained yourself with.'

'Do ye wish to hear, missus? What it's all about?' Anita asked defiantly, crossing her legs.

Mary looked at her sternly and nodded.

'Very well then… I have only someone in the warld…to care for me. His name is Monsieur Reuteil. He is French. Old sort. He is now five and sixty, aye. I was found half-dead one night, twenty years ago, near the river. He picked me up, I was a mere babe…and he took me to his droppin' cottage, very humble. And he took care of me alone. And now he's ill…very ill. The money I get servin' for Mrs. Gardiner never is enough for his draughts. One night, when I was serving dinner, Mr. Toddler came to us the first time and he pursued me. Aye, don't look so surprised! He is a milksop! Wretched, worthless man I say…and he bid me have him for a price. The money was more than enough for Monsieur…I accepted. Ye see, I am no good at nothing and I can't let him die.'

This faulty and coarsely narrated tale Mary heard with her mouth agape. The incredible truth struck her with such power that rendered her speechless. The vivid image of the man harassing Anita in that alley came to mind and perceiving it was Mr. Toddler, the puny man with a stuttering habit, the shy, insipid, unimaginative gentleman, Lady Nordstrom's pet, she shrank in disgust.

To have considered him decent and honourable! To have encouraged his friendship!

However, she restrained herself. Anita could perhaps lie, could perhaps evade the exact facts and impress on her the tragedy of her fate, yet her looks were so firm and so convincing that she could not doubt. Her trembling shoulder as she faced Mary, her dropped mouth spoke some pain.

'Is…is all this true, Anita?'

'As true as the fact that I care for Monsieur.'

'I cannot believe it…it must be some mistake,' Mary muttered dejected. To have so many blows in one night was quite something to her temper.

'No mistake, missus.'

'How long has this been going?' she asked.

'Some months…I've lost count, missus. Don't be angry, I'm more wretched.'

Mary rose from her seat and started to pace the room anxiously.

'What more is there?' she asked cautiously.

Anita bowed her head in true remorse and sighed. She placed her hands across her belly, trembling again.

''You are with child!' Mary exclaimed horrified. 'It cannot be!'

'Aye…aye…missus,' she said nodding ashamed.

'Anita! How…how…terrible, but this must be brought to light to my uncle…'

'No! I beg you missus, do not ruin me!' she implored looking up alarmed.

'There is no other better solution, for you are to be a mother!'

'There is missus! There is, I entreat you!'

'And what of it?'

'I...I know an ol' woman, missus. She's good with plants, she's a healer. She concocts drinks that cure you of any pain. She knows what I got to take to…to get rid of this,' she said blushing.

'An old woman! You make her sound like a sorceress! What kind of herb can she give you in such case?'

'I can't know, missus, but it's my last hope. I wanted to ask ye to lend me some money to give the woman. I haven't at this time…'

Mary shook her head upset, brushing some curls out of her face. Her mind was telling her to take care with such foils and warned her it might be all a trick. Yet, could she look at Anita's dropping figure and pleading eyes and not hesitate? Surely, it was strange. She had refused to aid Theodore, but she was considering attending to this poor maid, who had scorned her in the past.

'Missus, I am wrong. The ol' woman isn't my only hope. Ye are,' Anita said. 'She is very good with girls like I…she'll know. I only need the money.'

Mary sighed in frustration. Something inside her stirred and she presently went to her bedside table and drew out her portmanteau whence she extracted seven pounds. It was more than generous.

'Oh, oh thank ye, missus! God bless ye!' she exclaimed, taking the money with such reverence and bowing so low that Mary thought she would kiss her hand.

Anita's eyes skipped for joy as she held the pounds to her heart, treasuring them with all her might.

'Be sure, ye shan't regret it, missus!'