Chapter Ninety-Nine
When Mr. Rochester returned home, his boots were muddy and his coat wet. Mary rushed to him. “Robby! What on earth?”
“A carriage overturned on the road nearest the entrance to the Lodge, and we were called upon to assist.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“No, just shaken up a good deal.”
“It was good of you to help.”
Mr. Rochester shrugged, embarrassed. “It is nothing.”
“It is hardly nothing! Come, let us get you upstairs and into a warm bath at once.”
With the help of Mr. Rochester’s valet, the master of the house was soon warm and dry, and sitting in front of the drawing room fire with a large mug of tea that just might have had a splash of brandy in it. He smiled warmly at his loving wife.
He is a good man, Mary thought. He will understand. “Robby,” she began.
“Hmmm?” He looked up from his mug.
“Robby, tell me honestly; does it distress you that I cannot speak knowledgeably about art?”
He considered this for a long minute, staring at his wife. “Well,” he said at last. “I had rather assumed that we had a shared interest in it.”
“What made you think that?” Mary asked. “I do not think I ever wrote about art in any of my letters.”
He thought back, cradling the mug in his hands. “No, you did not,” he confessed. “I suppose the wish was father to the thought.”
Mary took a deep breath. “I will learn about art, if you are willing to teach me.”
His eyes lit up and he leaned forward. “Oh, Mary! Nothing would make me happier!”
Mary hastened to add, “You must understand that I have my own duties to attend to. I am mistress of the house, you know. But I would be happy to spend an hour every day with you. Would that suit?”
“Perfectly!”
“One other thing, dearest,” Mary went on. “I get up a good deal earlier than you do, and as a result, I go to sleep earlier. I am a country girl and keep country hours. Does this disturb you?”
“It does not, no,” he said. “I understand that it is my hours that are not the norm here in Meryton. If anyone is to change, it should be me.”
Mary’s relief was so obvious that Mr. Rochester could not help laughing. “Oh, my poor Mary! Did you think I wanted to force you to stay up late and be a slug-a-bed every morning like your lazy husband?”
“Well…”
“Fear you not, my dear. We, each of us, have the habits of a lifetime. And I suppose everything will change once the children come. Now, then, let us begin at once! There are landscape artists and portrait artists…”