Mary swallowed hard before replying in a weak voice. “Perhaps, Mr. Yarby. If it be God’s will.”
***
The two came to the lane that split off to Lucas Lodge where they parted amicably and went their separate ways. Mary delivered the invitation for dinner but declined an offer of tea from Lady Lucas. Instead, she decided to continue on into Meryton. Her father had just given his daughters their share of the yearly interest from Mrs. Bennet’s inheritance. In all, it was £160 in interest per annum (which her mother had always squandered), so Mary’s share was a hefty thirty-two pounds all to herself! Never before had she personally possessed such a sum of money to do with as she pleased.
She had brought some of it with her and had thought to spend it at the bookstore; instead, she found herself entering the dressmaker’s shop. After looking over the bolts of cotton, silk, and wool, she chose a rich, silk fabric of deep maroon and spoke to Mrs. Davies about the design, asking for something a bit lower cut in the neckline than she usually chose. She saw the dressmaker nod sagely but noted a twinkle in the older woman’s face. Heavens—was she perhaps gleaning an unspoken hint about Mary’s intentions? The shopkeeper agreed to the style and suggested a lovely lace that would, as she put it, “enhance the smaller bosom.” Mary felt herself blush but nodded in agreement.
The dress would be ready in ten days, Mrs. Davies assured her although Mary knew she would not be able to wear it until her and Kitty’s mourning period was over—in late November. Nothing could be worn before then but black. What an ordeal; Mary thought the color made her look like a hideous crow. How could she look attractive and catch Mr. Yarby’s eye while dressed so? It was annoying to have to wait six months, but Mary excelled at patience.
Leaving the shop, she began to imagine Mr. Yarby’s compliments when she wore her lovely, new maroon gown, and as she walked home, she found a smile on her face and a lighter step than she could recall having in some time.
Chapter 9
Following luncheon, Mr. Bennet returned to his library, but only briefly. Going over the estate accounts held no appeal for him on such a fine summer day. The warm breeze coming through the open window enticed him to put down his ledger, grab his coat, and go out the back of the house for a brisk walk as had become his custom in the weeks since his wife’s death. Initially, his strolls were a way to cope with his grief after her accident, but lately he had felt invigorated after his time out of doors and had decided to keep up the habit. He noticed he no longer fell asleep over a book in the afternoons, and unless he was mistaken, his trousers felt looser in the waist.
Ambling with no particular destination, Mr. Bennet, to his surprise, found himself in the church graveyard. He walked to his wife’s grave and noted the wilted flowers there. He studied the new headstone, so clean and pristine compared to the many dirty and moss-covered stones nearby. Along with his wife’s name, and birth and death dates, were the words:
Beloved Wife and Mother
She Has Soared Away to a Better Land.
That last line had been Kitty and Mary’s touch. Considering how his wife had died—not soaring at all, but falling down the stairs—Mr. Bennet had thought the quote inappropriate, but he did not have the heart to argue against it. All he could think now was that Mrs. Bennet would have rolled her eyes at the sentimentality of the wording. He could almost hear her voice: “A better land, indeed—I was quite content living in this land, thank you very much!”
As he stood now, he felt a deep pang of remorse for some of the unkind jokes he had made at his wife’s expense. She had been an easy target for his wit, being highly emotional and not of an intellectual nature; indeed, had he ever seen her willingly pick up a book? But he particularly regretted a time when Mrs. Bennet was once again bemoaning the fact that she would live to see Charlotte take her place at Longbourn. He had cruelly replied that they should be more optimistic; perhaps he might be the survivor. He shook his head in remorse.
And amazingly, here I am, the widower now. Inconceivable! At fifteen years her senior, it never seriously occurred to me that she would pass first. We both assumed I should go before her, which is why she was so determined to find good matches for our girls. Well, credit where credit is due, she did fairly well—three of the five gone off now. Kitty is likely to find a husband soon. I may take Lizzy up on her offer to give her a Season in London. But Mary—my poor plain Mary. I must be certain to make provisions for her. Not enough for a fortune hunter, to be sure, but something to give her a bit of independence. Although dear Lizzy did mention once that she and Mr. Darcy would be glad to take her in after I go. She would make a good help in the nursery for the children, or perhaps be their governess one day.
“Never worry, my dear, Mary will not be left on her own if I have anything to say about it,” he spoke aloud.
“I beg your pardon,” a voice replied.
Mr. Bennet spun around. Mrs. Withers was approaching, holding a bouquet of cut roses tied with a bit of twine. She made a small curtsey.
“Forgive me if I intrude on your solitary reverie, Mr. Bennet. I came to put these fresh flowers on your wife’s grave—that is, if you don’t object. I noticed just yesterday how shriveled the others were and thought to—” She broke off and shook her head. “Oh, but I should not presume. It is not my place. Please understand: I merely wished to brighten the grave a bit. Wilted flowers always…sadden me.”
“Not at all. You are very kind, Mrs. Withers, and quite welcome to do so. I should have brought some flowers from our own garden but did not actually intend to walk here, you see. I found myself in the cemetery quite by accident.” He leaned down, plucked the shriveled blooms from the grave and tossed them aside. Then he took the bouquet from Mrs. Withers and set it down gently. “That does look better—thank you.”
“I wish I had had the chance to meet her,” Mrs. Withers murmured. “Shall I leave you now?”
“I was going to continue my walk actually. If you would care for a stroll, I should be glad of your company.” He saw her eyes brighten at the invitation.
“With pleasure,” she replied.
The two walked out of the graveyard in a comfortable, easy silence.
***
Mr. Yarby sat in his study, putting the finishing touches on next Sunday’s sermon. It was a good one, he felt, and likely to generate some thoughtful responses from his congregation. As much as he enjoyed speaking from the pulpit, he received even more pleasure from conversing with his congregants as they filed out after service. The many positive comments and smiles were encouraging. He knew it was unusual for a rector to write his own sermons, but clearly, it was working out well.
I was truthfully quite nervous to take on this position, but everything seems to confirm that it is the right place. Thank you, Lord, for bringing Amelia and me here to Longbourn.
A light tapping on the window broke his concentration, and he looked up to see a plumpish, grave face peering in at him. Good heavens—it was Mr. Collins! Mr. Yarby jumped up and went to the window, opening it to speak to the man.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Collins—what a surprise. How may I help you?”
“I was just taking a pleasant walk and, realizing I was near Longbourn parish, I thought to see whether you were in; I was hoping to have a short chat.”
“Of course. Do come round to the door,” Yarby replied.
