Chapter Thirteen #2
I do, but you do not know ‘ow satisfyin’ it will be for me to triumph over ze upstart. You are not for ze colonel. ‘E is too old and too poor for you. Basile rubbed his cheek against his Caroline’s chin.
“It is clear to me that Basile loves you,” the colonel said.
Of course I love my Caroline, you imbecile!
“He is my darling boy,” she said warmly.
Basile’s irritation ebbed as he accepted her caresses. I am ‘er darlin’ boy. No ‘uman man will replace me in ‘er ‘eart.
“We are playing cards, Basile,” Caroline told him. “The colonel is teaching me to play piquet, so I am going to place you on your favorite spot to look outside.”
Basile thought about grumbling—a low, annoyed sound deep in his throat—but decided he would enjoy looking outside.
Soon, he sat on the upholstered box, set upon the window seat.
From that vantage point, he could see across the garden at the front of the house, where birds flitted, humans walked, pushing wheelbarrows or carrying rakes, and the occasional red squirrel ventured into sight.
I will watch for Monsieur Darcy. ‘E should return zoon. And, when ‘e does, I will rub against ‘is legs and purrrrrr so loudly even ‘e must know of my approval. I will be pleased, and I will even let Mademoiselle Georgiana pet me.
Basile’s ears pricked forward.
Wait, who is zat? He stood and stretched his forelegs up and rested them on the glass. Who is sneakin’? I know sneakin’, and ‘e is sneakin’. ‘E ‘as a red coat like ze dratted colonel. I don’t want another army man ‘ere. Who is ‘e?
“What is Basile so interested in?” the colonel asked behind him.
Basile heard him stand. Yes, yes. Come look at ze sneakin’ man. “Le meow. Le meow.”
“I do not think he cares for what he is seeing,” his Caroline said as she stood. “Can you see what he sees?”
The colonel bent over the window seat and peered outside. “Ah, I think I see a soldier. He must be here for me,” the colonel said, straightening.
Caroline leaned to look out the window, resting her hand on Basile’s back. “Then why does he not come up to the house?”
“He may not be sure where he is. I will go down,” the colonel said in a decisive manner.
Yes, yes, go down and tell zat sneakin’ man to be on ‘is way! I am ze only one who is permitted to sneak in zis ‘ouse.
Basile and Caroline waited together, watching the man until they could see the colonel.
However, as soon as the colonel appeared, the man vanished.
The colonel paused, and then continued to the spot where they had seen the soldier.
He stopped there, looked down the lane, and to both sides of the lane.
Shaking his head, he turned around and strode back to the house.
Basile took his forepaws off the glass and sat at attention.
“I wonder what that was all about?” Caroline murmured, stroking his back. “It is rather strange.”
What a stupid, sneakin’ man that soldier is. ‘E should’ve been more careful zat no one could see ‘im from the ‘ouse. Basile sniffed his disgust.
Before long, he heard footsteps approaching the room. Caroline stopped stroking him. Basile looked over his shoulder and watched her move toward the table once more.
Mon Dieu! ‘E doesn’t deserve your attention. Come back and tickle me under my chin. Zat is a worthy occupation.
“He is gone?” Caroline asked when the colonel entered.
“So, it seems. He was quick-footed.” The colonel shrugged, though he frowned, and half-closed the door behind him. “I suppose he could have hidden behind the hedgerow, but why should he do so? There is nothing to be ashamed of in mistaking an address.”
“It is odd,” Caroline agreed. “Did you recognize him?”
The colonel shook his head. “He was too far away, and I only caught a glimpse of him. I could not even see his rank. I doubt we would have seen him at all if the weather was not too warm for a greatcoat, which would have covered his red coat with gray.”
“Shame.” She waved at the table, seemingly waving away the incident at the same time. “Do you care for another round?”
The colonel smiled at her. “Will you beat me?”
“I will make every effort,” she promised.
Basile blinked and turned back to his examination of the outside world. Where is Monsieur Darcy? You must come back before zere is no ‘ope for you.
*
After church on Sunday, and after their family meal, Mary walked into Meryton, a satchel of reading material on one arm.
Jem, one of their aging grooms, walked with her.
He did so every Sunday. This week, however, he walked with more purpose for he had a son in St. Michael’s recovering from a bout of influenza.
“I hope your Tom will be improved from when we saw him on Thursday,” Mary said.
“Aye,” Jem replied in his phlegmatic way.
“I am sure his wife will look forward to having him home again,” Mary remarked. “Raising six children without their father to help her must be a trial.”
“Joan’s a good woman,” Jem asserted. “She has help—her mother’s visitin’”
“Excellent.” Mary’s thoughts turned inward as she anticipated seeing Doctor Gregg again, and she refrained from attempting to make conversation.
Oscar. Will he ever notice me as anything more than a childhood friend?
My fifty pounds a year will not tempt him.
He cannot afford to marry a woman without a proper dowery.
Fifty pounds—it is no more than a butler earns.
Besides, I am not beautiful like Jane, or lovely, like Lizzy.
I do not have the vivacity of Lydia or Kitty, either.
Why should he look at me twice? I am no better than a sister to him.
Aunt Phillips said Mr. Wainright—a barrister in Meryton—has a daughter who is worth one hundred fifty pounds a year. She is pretty, too. Though, Aunt Phillips claims Miss Wainright has a weak chin. But why should a weak chin get in the way of living comfortably?
Oscar will inherit his father’s house and practice. That is something. Even so, his father is only one-and-fifty and might live another twenty years or more, God willing.
Mary squeezed her hands into fists. She hated thinking about money all the time.
How nice it must be to be wealthy like Georgiana or Miss Bingley.
They can look forward to a comfortable life as long as they do not marry spendthrifts or gamblers.
Am I destined to be the companion of my parents’ old age?
Several fieldfares flitted across the road and landed in a sweet chestnut tree, whose leaves had begun to turn golden.
The birds’ cheerful chittering lightened Mary’s mood.
The afternoon, another warm one, had gifted them with blue skies and only a light breeze.
Fallen chestnuts had split open, and she minded her feet as she walked.
Mary took in a deep breath through her nose, reveling in the scents of early autumn, for soon she would be inside the infirmary with its myriad noxious odors.
The outskirts of Meryton came into view.
Because it was Sunday, the roads were quiet and free of drays.
Few carriages rolled along the dry cobblestones, making Sunday the quietest day in town.
St. Michael’s infirmary, a squat one-storey red brick building, inhabited a bit of land overlooking the Mery river.
A brick and iron railed fence surrounded the grounds.
The gatekeeper, a tall, thin man of sixty, stood beside the gate, next to a small, brick booth.
“Good day to you, Mr. Ralph,” Mary said, nodding at the gatekeeper.
“Miss Mary,” he said, touching his billed cap. “‘Tis a fine day, it is.”
“Yes, indeed,” she replied. “Jem is coming inside today, Mr. Ralph, to visit his son.”
“Aye, Miss,” he said, nodding to her and her groom.
Mary continued on to the main doors, Jem behind her.
Most Thursdays and Sundays he visited with Mr. Ralph while she busied herself with her duties.
Once inside, she let the head nurse know she had arrived, discovered which patients might need her to help them with some correspondence, and was told that the male convalescent ward occupants were ready for her to read to them.
Coming out of the cloakroom, she bumped directly into someone. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she gasped, glancing up to see who she had plowed into. Her heart did a somersault. “Goodness, Dr. Gregg.”
“Miss Mary,” Dr. Gregg said, smiling down at her from his medium height.
Some might have thought a taller man the ideal, but Mary believed his height perfect.
The sun streamed through a high window and touched on his golden-brown hair.
She had always loved his hair. This morning it looked as disheveled as usual since he had a habit of pushing his fingers through his hair while he thought.
Mary cleared her throat, and then said, “Good afternoon, Doctor.”
“Good afternoon,” he replied automatically.
Are his eyes twinkling? His beautiful, azure-blue eyes…
His smile turned into a frown of concentration. “Ahem…Have you brought something particularly interesting for the patients to listen to today? They could use some distraction.”
Mary looked down at the periodicals in her arms. “My sister leant me her copy of the British Scientific and Geographical Standard. There are some interesting articles featuring exotic animals.”
Dr. Gregg’s brow cleared. “Perfect, I should think.”
“I also have a sporting magazine and a sermon written by Theophilus St. John—from his Practical Sermons collection.”
His eyes narrowed. “A short one? They have already had the vicar in, and he spoke forever on the importance of paying tithes to the church.” He rolled his eyes. “To men who can scarcely put food on their tables.”
“I suppose he mentioned the widow’s mite?” she asked.
“I did not stay for the entire sermon, thank the good Lord,” the doctor said.