Read Online The Pursuit of Mary Bennet by Pamela Mingle - Free Book Online Page A

trees, / Waving and dancing in the breeze.’ ”
    I smiled, while inwardly cringing at her misquoting of Wordsworth.
    “Mary, you look the very picture of the country wife,” she said. Amanda looked the very picture of the kind of woman who never dirtied her hands with gardening. “Do you need any assistance?”
    “No, thank you. I’ve only one knife. I’m nearly done, anyway.”
    “I do so love daffodils. They make one feel happy, with their bright color and merry aspect. How I would love to grow them! So charming.”
    “Why can you not grow them?”
    She looked slightly perplexed, as if this were a weighty subject needing hours of thought. Ignoring my question, she asked one of her own. “Have you had any news from your dear family at Longbourn?”
    Oh, not this again. I should have guessed she hadn’t walked out here to tell me about her love of daffodils.
    “No, we’ve heard nothing of any consequence.” Papa had penned a few lines, informing us of matters we already knew or could have guessed at, such as: Mama had resumed visits to her sister but otherwise kept to her room; Lydia lay on the chaise most of the time complaining of boredom; he himself remained in his library as much as possible.
    The only item of any interest was that they’d engaged a midwife for the birth of Lydia’s child, which had given them, and us too, peace of mind regarding the upcoming event. And one final thing: Lydia had heard nothing from her husband. However, I was not inclined to share any of this with Amanda Ashton.
    “Tell me, Miss Bennet, is George Wickham a relation of Mr. Darcy?”
    The question was so unexpected, I swiveled to look at her, lost my balance, and fell backward, just managing to catch myself before tumbling completely over. I heard a snicker from Mrs. Ashton as I righted myself.
    “A relation? Do you mean a blood relation?”
    “I’ve been told they are half brothers.”
    “No, indeed, they are not. Mr. Wickham’s father was the steward at Pemberley until his death. That’s the only connection between them.”
    “I see.”
    If she could pry, I could do so in return. Keeping my voice even, I said, “Why do you ask? And who told you such a falsehood?”
    Her mouth stretched into that odd representation of a smile. “I do not recall who told me; one of my acquaintances in Bath, I think. Although I didn’t credit it, I wished to discover whether it was true or not. And I thought you and your family might want to know what was being said.”
    “If you didn’t credit it, I rather wonder you took the trouble to ask me about it.”
    “I’ve offended you, Mary. I do beg your pardon.”
    “You have a remarkable curiosity regarding my sister and Mr. Wickham, and I cannot help wondering why.”
    “With no children of my own, and a husband who pays me scant attention—don’t fret; I’m sure you’ve noticed—I have little else with which to entertain myself. Other people’s predicaments are, therefore, of great interest to me.”
    What an extraordinary admission. I wasn’t convinced she was telling the truth, however. For a moment, I challenged her with a skeptical look, but she said nothing further of any note. “I shall continue my walk, then, Mary, and hope you will forgive my impertinence.”
    To this I made no answer. I finished my flower gathering and rose, noticing as I did so that Mrs. Ashton was scurrying directly toward the house, seemingly with no intention of walking out any farther. A short while later, as I carried the daffodils to the house, I observed her and Mr. Ashton driving toward the village in his curricle.
    It occurred to me then to wonder why she thought of Lydia’s situation as a “predicament.” An uneasy feeling settled at the back of my mind. Did she know something?
    T hat evening, I met the vicar, Rev. Carstairs, for the first time. A cousin of Mr. Walsh, he was quite young, surely no more than two-and-twenty, with a head of dark, unruly hair and a congenial manner.