Chapter 26: Undoubtedly, The Sea Air Invigorates
In the end, there is no force quite so persistent and unswerving as youth's pursuit of diversion; and though there were many supposed hindrances to overcome, many seeming impossibilities, many concerns raised, here by the Lucases, here by the Phillipses, as to the logistics of the travel, the accommodations, the arranging of the party – but in the end, of course, it was wholly inevitable that the lively, ingenuous efforts of youth should triumph, and though it took a stretch of almost a month to enact it, the excursion to South End was, at last, ratified and confirmed. Lady Lucas, despite no particular fondness for either travel or the seaside, would accompany as chaperone; Miss Maria Lucas's youngest sister, Miss Amelia, by incessant pleading, would be allowed to join as well; and the Lucases' coach would be graciously supplied for this express purpose. There was an inn which had been once recommended to the Lucases by their cousins, which would suffice for accommodations, and Mr. Radcliff's sister would join them there, as it was all arranged expressly so that the weekend of their visit should fall upon her monthly leave.
If Mary had at this point yet nursed any hopes of remitting her acquiescence to this excursion, they were quickly thwarted; Mr. Radcliff would simply not hear of it. A gay weekend by the sea had never yet done anyone poorly, he insisted; such a weekend could not fail to charmingly interpose her stretches of study and reading; and in a week's time, not quite knowing how she had gotten there, aside from the fact that Mr. Bennet had given a rather strong encouragement in favor of it, Mary found that she was seated in the Lucases' coach as it rattled cheerily towards South End, in the company of the Lucases and Mr. Radcliff.
Miss Lucas and Miss Amelia were both of them trim, lively young women, a stark contrast to the self-possessed, sensible composure which Mary recalled of their eldest sister Charlotte, from the rather thin acquaintanceship she had held with her through Lizzy. The two younger Miss Lucases chattered readily and excitably, exclaiming over the most commonplace of sights that passed their windows, over the certain success of the impending weekend, over their eagerness to meet Miss Radcliff, having heard already such high praises to her credit – this last directed towards Mr. Radcliff, and indeed, a readier way into the gentleman's graces could not have been found. He was himself in pleasurable expectancy of his reunion, and the Miss Lucases' enthusiasm on his sister's account could not be anything but gratifying to him.
The Miss Lucases' manner of speaking was not nearly so reflective or tender-hearted as had been a feature of Georgiana's; and yet, there was something in their manner's artlessness, and well-intentioned sincerity, which summoned within Mary an agreeable wistfulness for her friend. Thus, though by all accounts their idle chatter should have begun to irk her, and appear to her distastefully frivolous, but the eagerness and lightness of spirit which were worn so charmingly by both Maria and Amelia, cheeks pink and hale with merriment, was quite difficult to either resist or begrudge; and quite soon, misgivings gave way to an almost hesitant jollity which overcame Mary, as she found herself several times smiling at a remark one of them had made, or nodding in agreement with Mr. Radcliff's sentiments on some subject, or craning her own head to peer out the window, and to see the greens as they swept prettily past.
Their arrival in South End was every bit as dramatic as one who visited it would have a right to expect; for a turn in the road revealed to them all at once, much as a painter unveiling his canvas with a flourish, the charming profile of the South End and all its resorts, and then, nestled in the town's crook, further on, the coast itself, fringed with a glittering sea of steel-blue which stretched inescapably into the horizon. Mary was stirred by the sight rather more than she thought it proper to be, for one who was neither a poet nor an artist, and though she should have never been brazen enough to suggest it herself, she was not ungladdened when the Miss Lucases both insisted, with great exclamations, that the coach be stopped there at the vantage point, so that they might marvel at the view and the sea air a few minutes longer.
As all gave great appreciation to the scene laid before them, Mary wandered to a stretch of grass which was several paces away from the rest of the party, for there was something inherently introspective in surveying a vista which was so vast and so foreign to her, in that it necessitated the reverence of solitude.
Mr. Radcliff had been most insistent of her joining their excursion to South End, but in truth, Mary had put forth little protestation to him, and she could only justify this ready acquiescence to herself in that she grew ever wearier of the familiarity of Longbourn, and the stifling nature of her mother's company. But even as she laid forth this argument to herself, she knew it to be false, or at the very least, incomplete. It was not so much of the circumstances of which she had grown weary, as it was the circumstances which she was lacking – she had grown used to company, perennial and steadfast – she, who had so long prided herself on her independence, and her solitary occupations, had grown accustomed to a sympathetic ear, a cheerful remark which might draw her from her solemnity, a kind, familiar face – and now that there was none, she felt its lack keenly. She did not think the Miss Lucases or Mr. Radcliff to be an ideal remedy to this malaise, but a remedy, however temporary, they nevertheless were – there was a gratification to be felt now, in that she could return any moment to their side, and be accepted once more into their merry, unserious discourses.
The wind at their current height was rather chilled, and carried already something of the sea upon its gusts. It whipped about Mary's cloak and her skirt, nipped at her cheeks and nose, but did not discomfit her – rather, she found it animating; it spoke of a wilderness which escaped her imagination, of distant, unfamiliar environs and exotic sights. On which vista, she wondered to herself, did Mr. Crawford look upon in that precise moment of his expedition? Was it a restless, grey sea, much as she gazed upon now, or something entirely dissimilar – some bustling Italian street, some Anatolian city, some jungle-entrenched landscape? Suddenly, to think of him was no longer painful – to think of him now was thrilling, a cherished, stolen pleasure in which she might indulge herself – to imagine him, as she had known him, as she remembered him – it was a solace of the soul, to think of him, and to wonder if perhaps, perhaps, he was that moment thinking of her in turn.
The wind began to tumble even more restlessly, and Mary at least turned to rejoin the party, endeavoring to shield her face, rather ineffectually, from the gusts.
"Miss Bennet, you have been to the seaside before?" Miss Lucas called politely to Mary, and Lady Lucas interceded thoughtlessly, "Yes, of course, I am sure; at the very least, the family has traveled to Brighton."
"No, it is my first time, I fear, Miss Lucas," Mary responded serenely. "Brighton has been visited by some of my sisters, but I myself have not traveled much outside of Longbourn."
"All the better you have been convinced to join us, then!" exclaimed Mr. Radcliff, and Maria, arm-in-arm with her sister, smiled brightly in agreement. "How delightful a shock to the senses it is, is it not? How drastic a change to the country air!"
Lady Lucas was perhaps the least moved among all of them by the dramatic view which sprawled below them, and at this point, having put up with as much chill as she had ever intended to, she began to wander back meaningfully towards the waiting coach, and hover near it, until it was made clear to everyone that their journey should be at last resumed.
They boarded the coach once more, with many parting, laudatory exclamations, but luckily, it was not long before they were entering South End proper, and reaching the inn on which they had settled, where they might more permanently disembark the coach, and entrust the horses to the stable attendants. A cold luncheon had been arranged for them on their arrival, and they ate it as heartily as if they had spent the whole day combing the coast amidst the hearty sea air; the anticipation of adventure was enough to stir the appetite; and then, having eaten, it was suddenly imperative they must be done with their meal, and must begin to roam the town, and admire all its advantages.
Lady Lucas was most reluctant; a rest in their rooms seemed to her just the thing, followed perhaps by a tea, and then perhaps by some quiet introspection until supper; the inn seemed a perfectly suitable place to spend the rest of the day, in fact; but she could hardly finish the suggestion before she was cried down, forcefully and keenly, by her daughters, who would not entertain even for a moment the notion of not touring the town.
"And I had been planning regardless," added Mr. Radcliff mildly, "to head into town to meet my sister, as she is set to arrive quite soon by mail coach."
This settled the matter completely, and Mary found herself being made companion to the disappointed Lady Lucas, as Mr. Radcliff with Maria and Amelia stalwartly led the way before them.
They did not have to wait long for the coach to arrive; they had been amply distracted and meandering in their progression to have arrived quite late, and the coach could already be seen trundling towards them. As it stopped, several passengers disembarked it, one or two being young ladies, but Mary did not have to guess which of them was Miss Lucy Radcliff – there was a warm animation about her which was instantly recognizable, common as it was to both her and her brother, as well as the same twinkling joviality about the eyes – though in contrast to Mr. Radcliff, her eyes had an added sharpness, and awareness to them, which, when her gaze was applied to a person, made one feel as if she were quickly and efficiently forming an opinion of them, and cataloguing it away neatly.
She greeted everyone warmly, and was fussed over, first by her brother, and then by the Miss Lucases, who avowed they had never been so pleased to make a young lady's acquaintance as they were hers, with such earnestness that one might be convinced that they believed the verity of their own words as they spoke them.
Miss Radcliff was rather slight, but had a fair, pleasing face, an agreeable smile and eyes which were bright enough to warrant a gentleman's attention. She insisted swiftly that the exploration of South End, and their excursion to the beach, must not be delayed any longer on her account, and that they must complete their exchange of pleasantries while they walked.
Lucy joined first her brother, and they walked ahead of all of them, so that Mary found herself awkwardly shepherded between Maria and Amelia, as they spoke excitedly of any stray thought or observation of their surroundings which might occur to them, however fleeting or insubstantial it might be. Mary could find no good place to enter the conversation, save to make some trivial remark upon the weather or the briskness of the air, and so remained silent, leaving them to chatter naturally amongst themselves.
At length, however, a beach was stumbled upon, milling with groups and travelers, and the wonderfulness of it directly exclaimed over – of course, they would return tomorrow properly equipped to enjoy it, with parasols and seats and reading – but could they not enjoy it for an hour or so without all these, by strolling along the shore, sheltering in the enclaves of shade, being overtaken by the hale air?
They began their stroll united, but quickly the group began to split off – the Lucas sisters continuing onward, the Radcliffs laughing at the gaiety of the waves, Lady Lucas and Mary pausing (upon Lady Lucas' insistence) to repose in a spot of shade.
With Lady Lucas settling herself some distance away, fanning herself languidly, Mary occupied herself by surveying the milling young ladies and gentlemen about her, though not to any particular purpose or intent, and occasionally to gazing out upon the glazed ocean, and its rollicking, foamy tide.
"Ah, you have found a pretty bit of shade, I see!" Lucy Radcliff appeared beside Mary, her bonnet quite askew, but smiling broadly. Some distance away near the shore, the Miss Lucases and Mr. Radcliff were engaged in an animated, gay discussion on some subject. "I believe we have not yet had chance for a proper introduction, Miss Bennet, though I must inform you that my brother has made mention of you in his letters; you should not take that compliment lightly, for he is a terribly meager correspondent, and whatsoever makes it into his writing must be significant enough to warrant it."
"Oh," Mary said weakly, quite flustered, at both the spirited introduction, as well as the notion that she was known already to Miss Radcliff. Lucy Radcliff had a quick, competent way of speaking, which seemed to value brevity and effectualness, and which was perhaps an inevitable effect from her position as governess.
"Mr. Radcliff has spoken to everyone a great deal of you, Miss Radcliff," Mary said faintly.
Lucy did not seem surprised by this. "Yes, we have always been fortunate enough to share an intrinsic understanding, one which not all relations are fortunate enough to possess in-common. A sister or brother can, in truth, be a rather bothersome thing, if their character is not in some way sympathetic to yours."
To this, Mary had no apt response, but Miss Radcliff did not seem to expect one; and they were content several minutes to enjoy the shade in each other's company, and to gaze upon the shifting expanse of the sea in a rather pleasant silence.
"Might I ask, Miss Radcliff, if it is not too personal – are you quite satisfied with your situation, and your work?"
Miss Radcliff had closed her eyes, allowing herself to sway slightly with the wind, but she opened them at Mary's question, and her returning gaze appeared to Mary to be knowing, but not unkind. "Do you know, Miss Bennet, I am far more satisfied than I ever expected to be; I might even daresay I am approaching contentment. There is always, of course, the danger of slipping into loneliness, or of being ill-used; but my employers have shown themselves thus far to be just and considerate; and loneliness is only an affliction to those who do not enjoy the company of their own thoughts. Perhaps it is a mark of an untoward pride, but I find my thoughts are always perfectly sufficient to amuse myself, and failing that, a book is an even more apt companion; no, Miss Bennet, I do not mind it nearly so much as I feared. There is a great deal to be said for obtaining a favorable situation, with a decent family." Miss Radcliff's tone altered to one of professional briskness. "Tell me, are you educated in the arts?"
"I play and sing, but do not draw."
"Ah, no matter, drawing can be supplemented. And languages?"
"French and a bit of Italian," Mary said awkwardly, feeling, beneath Lucy's keen eye, that she was being measured up.
"And your grasp on the various subjects? History? Sciences? Basic arithmetic?"
Mary acceded to all of these, her cheeks coloring instinctually. "But I am self-taught in all these, I am afraid -"
"All the better!" Miss Radcliff interrupted. "Once you have already taught yourself, it shall be all the easier for you to teach others. I should ask if you have a disposition towards solitude, but I can very well see already that you are of the character which can be content with her own musings."
"I also write," Mary said timidly, and was immediately startled at herself for saying so. It was no falsehood, for she had hardly rested her pen the past month with her writing – as if with the dams at last unstoppered, the waters could not help but pour out en masse - most of it, of course, unversed, coarse, incomplete, but all of it earnest, and some stray lines or thoughts upon which she would stumble occasionally, with which she was actually quite pleased. But she had not spoken of it to anyone yet – not even to Georgiana or Lizzy – and to impart this secret now, so freely, to one with whom she held only the barest acquaintance – she could not explain such a slip of the tongue, even to herself.
Of course, there was one solitary figure to whom she wished to impart it most of all – the one who was first to encourage her, first to understand, with his discerning eye, the fears and unsurety that had so long stayed her hand – she wished most of all to share it with him – hesitantly, shily, to even produce some of her scrawled sheafs for him, inexpert as they were, to be rewarded by the gentle, considering intensity of his gaze, his warm approval, his reassurance – "Miss Bennet, the writer," he should say fondly, teasingly, and he would read through her words, and point to particular parts – "What is meant by this line, here?"-"Ah, this sentiment might be better earlier on, might it not?"
Mary became conscious then that her cheeks must have grown quite red, and that her expression might have become peculiar, and so she turned away from her hastily, so that she was once again facing the shore.
Lucy Radcliff had watched her carefully, but did not press Mary on her sudden embarrassment. "In that case, Miss Bennet, you are fortunate indeed, for you shall never be wanting occupation," she said mildly, though her gaze was shrewd. "The important part, of course, is to obtain a favourable living, and not to stumble upon an unfavourable one. Through my position, I hear always the odd news of this house or that which is in search of a governess, and it is quick to spread among us, which families are desirable as employers, and which are not. If you are ever in need of some recommendation, I must insist you pen a letter to me, and I shall offer my best advice or suggestions."
Miss Radcliff had not asked Mary if she thought that she might one day be in search of such a position, but then, she had had no need of asking – Mary could tell that Lucy's nature was an innately perceptive and discreet one, more so than her brother, who had proven himself to be intuitive, but who was nevertheless often content with cursory and passing impressions of those around him. Mary was certain, somehow, that their current conversation should go no further, and she felt a great surge of gratitude suddenly towards Miss Radcliff, and her unpitying matter-of-factness.
And could she? Could she become governess, employed to a family much like her own, ascribed to mind and instruct their children, to live unmarried and solitary, at an immoveable distance from all those around her? It was not to be denied, that if ever there was any temperament which had been forged for such a life, it was undoubtedly her own.
It was true, perhaps, that she would not be happy. But with the right placement, the right circumstances, the chance to write and to read, the chance to teach others, how she had once desperately wished herself to be taught – perhaps, perhaps she might be content. There were worse fates than this; there were worse prices to pay for independence. Of course, she knew Pemberley should be always open to her, if the need arose – perhaps Jane should offer her residence as well – and assuredly, her daughters' hospitality was that upon which Mrs. Bennet was likely to depend, once the entail was claimed by Mr. Collins – but what of her? Would she wish to be perennially haunting the halls of her sisters' lives, to cosset their children, to be always dependent on their sisterly generosity, to wreak a burden upon their finances – would she wish to be always reminded of that which she would never have, of happiness which would be never hers?
For Mary knew her heart was a very particular type – once bestowed the first time, it was altered irreparably, it was shuttered everlastingly – if Mr. Crawford was not to be her husband, she would have – could have - no other; if their paths did not ever again cross, then her path would remain evermore a solitary one.
The wind tugged insistently at her hair, the tide as she watched it came and went – came and went. The waves gleamed brightly in the sun, Mr. Radcliff laughed with the Miss Lucases, the people milled about gaily, and suddenly, a strange, soothing sense of calmness settled over Mary, much like the one which she had felt upon the hill earlier, gazing out over the endless stretch of sea. She knew, finally, what this sentiment was – it was the absence of fear. At last, it was the surety of her own step. It was subservience to majesties and truths, which were grander and vaster than herself – it was to climb the tree, even though its boughs may break, because at last, she knew herself to be sure enough, unyielding enough, to weather the fall.
The tide, as she watched it, came and went – came and went, unalterable and indestructible, and as she watched it, she smiled.
"I think it best we join them," Miss Radcliff said to Mary at last, stretching lazily, "or they might take it upon themselves to have all the fun on our behalf." And she proffered her arm to Mary, so they might head out onto the beach together.
A/N: Hello, everyone :) I know I took a while for this update, but on the plus side, this chapter was kind of a longer one. Thank you so much, as always, to everyone who is reading, for your patience and for all your kind words and support.
So, alas, we're approaching the end of Part II; I think the direction I have in mind for Part III will become clear in the next chapter. Hopefully you all enjoyed their trip to South End, hope you all have a lovely weekend, and see you all for the next chapter!