Read Online The Pursuit of Mary Bennet by Pamela Mingle - Free Book Online
Authors: Pamela Mingle
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liked to laugh.
I tried to put him out of my mind. But it was hopeless, because all I could think about was the feel of his warm flesh on mine. Our hands clasped together. I would have liked to etch the memory somewhere, so no one could take it away from me. I would have liked to hold it inside forever.
Chapter 7
T he days boasted glorious spring weather, perfect for all those desirous of fresh air. The men spent hours riding, fishing, and shooting. Since most game was out of season, they had to content themselves with hunting gray squirrels and rabbits. “Not much sport in that,” declared Mr. Ashton.
I walked alone much of the time, although occasionally Jane accompanied me. On one of my solitary rambles, as I passed near the riverbank, I heard a fine male voice singing “Annie Laurie.” I knew it was not Charles, who couldn’t sing at all, so that left one of the other two gentlemen. I sneaked toward the sound, hoping my half boots wouldn’t land on a twig and give me away.
The singing ceased. “I hear you, so you’d best make yourself known.” It was Mr. Walsh.
He must have uncannily good hearing, I thought, my cheeks already flushing. “It’s Mary Bennet,” I said, walking toward him.
“Miss Bennet, you shock me. Sneaking up on a gentleman is a very risky business. What if I’d had my gun?” He set his rod and reel down and leaped to his feet. He’d shed his coat, and now looked around for it.
“I hardly believe you would have shot me,” I said, chuckling.
He smiled. “Indeed. Your footstep is much lighter than a wild boar’s.” Having found his coat, he slipped it on. He wore no waistcoat or cravat.
“Do forgive me for the intrusion, but when I heard you singing, I had to see who it was. You have an impressive voice, sir.”
“Thank you.” He gave me a wry smile. “I don’t usually sing with others about.”
“Then we will not have the pleasure of hearing you after dinner one evening? I could accompany you, if you’d like.”
“I would never live it down. Bingley and Ashton would make dreadful sport of me.”
All I could do was smile at this. He was no doubt right.
“Perhaps if I could persuade you to sing a duet with me?” he said.
I flushed at the thought. “Oh, never. I have the worst voice imaginable. I have vowed never to sing in company again.”
He laughed. “No! I cannot believe it.” He took my elbow and began to steer me back toward the lane. “You walk every day, I think.”
“When the weather allows, yes.”
“May I join you?”
“Now?”
When he nodded, I said, “But your fishing gear—you don’t want to leave it, do you?”
“I shall walk as far as the avenue, and then I’ll return to my angling.”
We talked only of mundane things How long the excellent weather would last, the number of fish he’d caught that morning, and the length of his stay at High Tor. Probably a few more weeks, he said. Nothing noteworthy, like our conversation about Lord Nelson had been. When we reached the avenue, he bowed. “Enjoy the rest of your walk, Miss Bennet.”
“I hope the fish continue to bite, and do please forgive me for sneaking up on you.”
“Not at all. I’m glad you did.”
His voice rang in my head during the rest of the way.
Her brow is like the snowdrift
Her throat is like the swan
Her face it is the fairest
That e’er the sun shone on.
I imagined he was singing about me. But Annie Laurie had blue eyes, not brown, like mine.
It was Kitty who had blue eyes.
L ate one morning, Jane asked me to cut fresh flowers for the salon because the vicar was coming to dinner. I donned an apron and, knife in hand, carried my basket toward an area skirting the lane where daffodils grew in profusion. Cutting stems and humming a few bars from a Haydn piece I’d just been practicing, I started when Amanda Ashton came into view. I didn’t bother looking up again until she spoke. “ ‘I saw some golden daffodils; / Beside the lake, beneath the
I tried to put him out of my mind. But it was hopeless, because all I could think about was the feel of his warm flesh on mine. Our hands clasped together. I would have liked to etch the memory somewhere, so no one could take it away from me. I would have liked to hold it inside forever.
Chapter 7
T he days boasted glorious spring weather, perfect for all those desirous of fresh air. The men spent hours riding, fishing, and shooting. Since most game was out of season, they had to content themselves with hunting gray squirrels and rabbits. “Not much sport in that,” declared Mr. Ashton.
I walked alone much of the time, although occasionally Jane accompanied me. On one of my solitary rambles, as I passed near the riverbank, I heard a fine male voice singing “Annie Laurie.” I knew it was not Charles, who couldn’t sing at all, so that left one of the other two gentlemen. I sneaked toward the sound, hoping my half boots wouldn’t land on a twig and give me away.
The singing ceased. “I hear you, so you’d best make yourself known.” It was Mr. Walsh.
He must have uncannily good hearing, I thought, my cheeks already flushing. “It’s Mary Bennet,” I said, walking toward him.
“Miss Bennet, you shock me. Sneaking up on a gentleman is a very risky business. What if I’d had my gun?” He set his rod and reel down and leaped to his feet. He’d shed his coat, and now looked around for it.
“I hardly believe you would have shot me,” I said, chuckling.
He smiled. “Indeed. Your footstep is much lighter than a wild boar’s.” Having found his coat, he slipped it on. He wore no waistcoat or cravat.
“Do forgive me for the intrusion, but when I heard you singing, I had to see who it was. You have an impressive voice, sir.”
“Thank you.” He gave me a wry smile. “I don’t usually sing with others about.”
“Then we will not have the pleasure of hearing you after dinner one evening? I could accompany you, if you’d like.”
“I would never live it down. Bingley and Ashton would make dreadful sport of me.”
All I could do was smile at this. He was no doubt right.
“Perhaps if I could persuade you to sing a duet with me?” he said.
I flushed at the thought. “Oh, never. I have the worst voice imaginable. I have vowed never to sing in company again.”
He laughed. “No! I cannot believe it.” He took my elbow and began to steer me back toward the lane. “You walk every day, I think.”
“When the weather allows, yes.”
“May I join you?”
“Now?”
When he nodded, I said, “But your fishing gear—you don’t want to leave it, do you?”
“I shall walk as far as the avenue, and then I’ll return to my angling.”
We talked only of mundane things How long the excellent weather would last, the number of fish he’d caught that morning, and the length of his stay at High Tor. Probably a few more weeks, he said. Nothing noteworthy, like our conversation about Lord Nelson had been. When we reached the avenue, he bowed. “Enjoy the rest of your walk, Miss Bennet.”
“I hope the fish continue to bite, and do please forgive me for sneaking up on you.”
“Not at all. I’m glad you did.”
His voice rang in my head during the rest of the way.
Her brow is like the snowdrift
Her throat is like the swan
Her face it is the fairest
That e’er the sun shone on.
I imagined he was singing about me. But Annie Laurie had blue eyes, not brown, like mine.
It was Kitty who had blue eyes.
L ate one morning, Jane asked me to cut fresh flowers for the salon because the vicar was coming to dinner. I donned an apron and, knife in hand, carried my basket toward an area skirting the lane where daffodils grew in profusion. Cutting stems and humming a few bars from a Haydn piece I’d just been practicing, I started when Amanda Ashton came into view. I didn’t bother looking up again until she spoke. “ ‘I saw some golden daffodils; / Beside the lake, beneath the
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