Chapter 1 #2
But now I must find a suitable woman. Respectable, but not too fine. I must woo her. That meant dancing, alas. Making conversation, more was the pity. Praise of her more amiable qualities. Well, the latter I could do. I was accustomed to thinking up little compliments to try to please the ladies.
Then I must tell her I wished to make her my wife.
Wait.
First, I must assure her of my high esteem and most tender feelings. Yes, that was expected. Then I must tell her I wished her to be my wife.
I must marry her. Then I must lie with her, more than once, though I was uncertain how often was considered proper.
Elegant females did not speak of such things and so perhaps did not have great expectations in that area.
Indeed, perhaps they preferred husbands who did not make many demands of that type?
Ah, but women expected children, did they not?
So, it would likely be necessary to lie with her until she’d had at least one child, or probably three or four.
And then—upon my word, but the horror was coming ever clearer!
—she would have opinions. She would have preferences.
She would invite company beyond what was necessary.
She might want alteration in my little household.
She might want me to turn off Mrs Fowke, my housekeeper.
She might dislike Milly, the maid. She might say that old George, Mrs Fowke’s brother, was too infirm to dig the garden and tend the animals.
I wanted no change to anything. Mrs Fowke was a kindly, bustling sort who made excellent suet puddings and boiled her potatoes to a nicety; never too much, never too little.
Milly was quiet, middle-aged, untroublesome.
Perhaps there was sometimes dust upon the window ledges but that mattered not since she neither sang nor clattered as she went about her business. No, I must not lose Milly.
And George—it was true he suffered from his rheumatics very severely sometimes and that he was prone to agues besides, but if that meant I had to do a little extra, well, I liked working in the garden.
I enjoyed it above all things. And he was not terrifying in the manner of so many gardeners of my acquaintance.
I did not have to gird my loins to give him a simple direction about the leeks. He had never once glowered or sulked.
A wife could ruin it all. She might want me to get a new man.
A carriage. Fancy things from London. She would fuss and make alterations and say things wouldn’t do.
And I should have to listen to her and do as she said, for a man is a tyrant if he does not listen to his wife and the rector of Hunsford must set a good example.
Yet I could not refuse Lady Catherine. A few short months ago I had expected to remain a curate all my life, or at least for decades, until Mr Bennet died and I could inherit Longbourn.
Being given the living at Hunsford was the type of good fortune that came but once a lifetime. I owed my patroness everything.
I took my leave at six o’clock and walked home through Rosings Park.
It was Sunday evening, usually the best part of the week with my duty done for the day.
The park was glorious, the sunlight slanting green and gold through the summer trees, but I could not enjoy it.
Instead, I must consider the young females of my acquaintance with a view to matrimonial suitability.
There was Miss Cowper. She had a kind smile and was pleasant to behold. But she was surely too fine, and anyway, was there not talk of an understanding with Captain Harvey?
There was Miss Cook, but she was too giddy for a rector’s wife. She was loud besides, with a clear, carrying voice and a laugh that set my teeth on edge.
There was Miss Norris. She spoke soft and never raised her eyes. She would make no demands upon me, I was bound, nor insist upon my hiring a new housekeeper or a new man. But she must be five-and-thirty, at least. Lady Catherine would never approve my marrying such an old maid.
There were Miss Polkington and her sisters; Miss Henrietta, Miss Emma and Miss Patricia.
They were gentlewomen with no fortunes. One of them would doubtless be glad to say yes to their young rector.
Only they did titter so, and had such a quantity of aunts, all of whom would doubtless insist upon visiting very regularly.
My long peaceful evenings would be quite at an end.
Perhaps a lady from further afield who had not so many relations in Kent?
Before Lady Catherine had bestowed the living upon me, I had been curate to a Mr Clarke, in Sussex, not far from where I had grown up.
He had three daughters. They had laughed at me behind my back and sometimes played me tricks, stuffing paper in my hatband and salting my tea, but perhaps they would be kinder now I was in a position to marry?
Mr Clarke had not been my friend, exactly, and could be rather terse, but he would not likely gainsay me a visit.
Yet I saw in my mind’s eye the pretty faces of his daughters, arrayed about the dining table like flowers, ringlets shaking and eyes bright with silent derision as they glanced at one another and then at me.
I kicked at a nettle at the side of the path.
Cats. Those Clarke girls were little cats.
Or no, because that was unfair to domestic felines, who had ever been sweeter to me than they.
I am not easily angered or offended. I know my shortcomings too well.
I am no wit, no sportsman. I am pleasing neither in person nor in conversation.
But I had really done my utmost with the Misses Clarke.
I had tried always to be pleasant and polite.
I had prepared little compliments and spoken no words but of praise.
I had attempted to model my conduct upon that of the local squire’s son, a gentleman whom the Misses Clarke had professed to esteem most highly.
I took a deep breath and unclenched my fists. I had not noticed that I had clenched them but recalling the Misses Clarke did that to me. Well, doubtless, my anger was unwarranted. Likely, I was the one at fault. All the same, I should not look to Sussex for a wife.
If only I knew a sympathetic fellow with whom I could discuss this matter of finding a wife, as honestly as decency would allow. Yet I had ever struggled to make acquaintances. I had but one friend in my youth, and Jem was a common farm labourer’s son and long lost to me besides.
A sweet ache arose in my chest, as it did when I thought of Jem and his preferment of me.
I had been afraid of him at first due to his large size, his beetling brow and hare lip, all of which had given him a fearsome aspect.
But I had soon learned that for all his brawn he was mild and gentle, kind to wild things and upset by strife or raised voices.
Once I had got to know him, I had privately sometimes fancied him kin to the giant, feather-hocked horses his father had once worked with on the farm; so strong he had no need to prove it.
We had not talked much, Jem and I. He had been my father’s gardener’s boy and had perforce many duties to attend to.
It had been enough that he had sometimes joined me on my rambles about the woods and the levels, that he had let his shoulder rest against mine when we sat side by side, and that he had seemed to take it for granted that we should share whatever we had, whether it was my hatful of blackberries or his crust of bread.
The year we turned fifteen we had shared some other things besides, but then I had been sent away to school and when I had returned at the end of that dreadful first term, he had run away to sea. I had never seen him again.
I passed beneath the great oak, which stood in my favourite section of the park, but even the proximity of that gracious giant could not cheer me today.
The path dipped through a coppice of sweet chestnut, and there, across the little footbridge, was the rectory.
My rectory. I had dwelt there since Easter and it was but June, but had I lived there all my life, and my forebears before me, I could not have loved it more.
It was a solid square building of grey stone, with two storeys and some garret rooms above for the servants.
It had a neat, dependable, well-appointed aspect.
The flower garden was a riot of colour, with roses and honeysuckle, celandine, lavender, pansies and eglantine.
There was an orchard behind, with damsons, apples, pears and cherries, as well as a mulberry tree and a nuttery with a spreading walnut, white filberts, hazels and cobnuts.
Beyond that, my glebe lands; two fine pastures with sheep, half a dozen cows, and some pigs.
I passed the profusion of raspberry canes and gooseberry bushes, and the vegetable garden with its rows of carrots, beans, onions, leeks, potatoes and marrows.
Many of these I had planted myself and, despite my current dilemma, it gave me a thrill to see those rows burgeoning.
There were the herbs; the lovage and the fennel, the mint, marjoram and thyme.
The drone of the dumbledores grew loud and the air was shot with gold.
Perhaps I could find a wife who would understand that nothing must be changed? Who would see that my folk must not be upset and made to do anything differently?
I sighed. That did not seem likely.
Some people, I am persuaded, are made for happiness.
They understand how to enjoy and to husband it.
Since my first bewildered week at Hunsford, when I had walked about in a daze, I had suspected something terrible would happen to rob me of it.
I had ever felt like a child with a honeycomb who has just kicked the hive.
He can feel his happiness. He can, perhaps, even taste it, but he knows that in a moment it will be gone.