Chapter 7 #2
Well, I must write to Mr Bennet that very evening, and then tomorrow I must drive with it to Pettiford, for I did not like to post it in Hunsford in case it got back to Lady Catherine that I had not sent the letter until after our conversation.
I would take Jem with me to Pettiford on some excuse and apprise him of the situation on the way.
Since all the unpleasantness lay at my feet, I would assure him that his position would be safe and that nothing would change between us, and then he would not be discomforted by the news.
As I left Rosings, I remembered the dumbledore in my pocket.
I had almost certainly crushed it as I had forgotten about it during the difficult conversation with Lady Catherine.
I removed my handkerchief from my pocket and opened it, intending to let the body of the insect fall to the grass.
To my surprise, however, the creature stirred and arose from its shroud of white linen and soared into the air, wings glinting.
Clearly, it had not been dead. Perhaps the warmth of my pocket had revived it.
I could not show it to Jem now, and yet, my spirits lifted along with the bee, for it seemed a small miracle.
* * *
T he next day, as planned, Jem and I set off for Pettiford. I had said I needed him to help carry my purchases, which was perhaps not strictly necessary, but I had invented a need for more sermon paper, besides having my letter to post.
Mrs Fowke charged Jem with buying fish and a few other necessary items for the kitchen that she could not get from the garden or the village.
I promised George that we would also call at the apothecary since I had recently learned of a sovereign remedy for rheumatism, being nitre, sulphur and rhubarb mixed with treacle, and I had made a careful note of it, thinking it might help him.
The day was bright and ‘finger cold’ as Mrs Fowke termed it, being chilly enough to make the extremities tingle.
Some of the hedgerows had already been cut, though some still harboured inky sloes and crimson hawthorn berries.
The air smelled of woodsmoke and Pilot’s ears were pricked as if he was glad to be out and moving.
I told Jem about my conversation with Lady Catherine and apprised him of the contents of my letter. Then I assured him in the sincerest of tones that nothing would change and that we should continue as we had these few months past.
He was silent for quite fifty yards, and then said, “Married?”
Usually, he was very quick, but I supposed had not been expecting the news.
I explained again all the salient points of the matter, including that Lady Catherine had first raised the subject of my marriage in June, in fact, on the very day he had first arrived in Hunsford, and that while I had no personal wish to marry—rather the opposite—she expected it and would be most displeased if I did not carry out her wishes, and therefore, in a way, I did wish to marry as I did not wish to upset her.
“Aye,” he said. “Lady Catherine. I see.”
“It would be fitting for me as the rector to set the example of matrimony in the parish. It would bolster my role, so to speak. So, that would be a good thing. It would add to our security.”
“You want an actress, not a wife,” he muttered, snapping the reins, though Pilot was already walking along the lane with a good will.
“Yes, but I can scarcely advertise for that.”
He was silent a moment, then said what seemed an oddly determined tone, “All right, but what about her, though, eh?”
“What do you mean? What about her?”
“Well, she thinks she’s getting a husband when all you want is a…a…part.”
“No, no,” I shook my head. “Of course I’ll be her husband. I will support her and be kind to her.”
“Won’t love her.” He paused. “Or will you?”
I was stung at his implied criticism, for she would be getting the better part of the deal. “She will be the rector’s wife. She will be respectable and want for little. I will make no unreasonable demands and will treat her always with courtesy. Many women would be glad of such a bargain.”
“True enough.” He was silent, guiding Pilot through the shallow ford in the Gadway. We should soon be out of the environs of Hunsford and on the Pettiford road. Then he said, “Still.”
“Still, what?”
“Ain’t it wrong to lie to the maid?”
“What lie?” My head was beginning to ache a little, as it never did usually when I was with Jem.
“I will treat her with kindness and look after her always, as a husband should. And if she is decent and thoughtful and quiet about the house—you know, like Milly, or Mrs Fowke—then I am sure I shall esteem her most highly, as I do them.”
He looked at me oddly, but said no more, and I was relieved to drop the subject and to speak of more interesting matters, such as the fact that one of the young apple trees had not one but three cankers, and whether it would be better to try to cure it or whether we should cut our losses and dig it out.
It was not until we had discharged our various duties in Pettiford and were halfway back to Hunsford that he said in a low voice, “You’re resolved, then, to marry?”
His confusion bewildered me, for I had thought I had made it quite clear on the outward journey, but I explained all over again, and then once more, until I felt I was Obvious Collins indeed.
“But nothing will change, Jem,” I assured him. “I promise. Your position in my household is assured.”
“Aye, thank you.”
His tone was oddly formal, but I again thought the matter at an end, when he muttered, “I’ll lay some things will change, choose how.”
I waited for him to elaborate but he did not, so I asked, “Which things do you mean?”
“You know,” he said.
A spark of vexation lit in my belly for the situation I faced was difficult enough and while I had been trying all morning to school my apprehension, the dread of the ghastly adventure I should soon have to undertake was setting in: strangers to meet, unfamiliar food, dancing, and so on.
I had no patience for guessing games, especially not with Jem, who was usually a refuge from such foolery.
“If I knew, I would not ask,” I said, somewhat testily.
“You know,” he said again, and then, as if realising how unhelpful this was, immediately added, “What we have been doing. Down by the brook. Frigging.”
“Oh, that.” We drove on, perhaps a quarter mile, while I tried to understand his reasoning. Eventually, I asked, “But why should that stop when I am married?”
He made an odd shrinking movement, like a horse twitching its skin to rid itself of a fly.
“Well…well…wouldn’t be right, would it?” he said.
“Of course, what we do is a private thing. We both know that. We would not tell her. My wife, I mean.”
“No, no. Course not. Don’t mean that.” He had gone bright red and appeared to be sweating, although it was not warm.
In fact, a cold breeze had sprung up from the east. “I mean…if you’re married…
well, it’d be lying, wouldn’t it, because you promise her.
You say, ‘forsaking all others’ and you promise it.
And so that’s what she thinks you’ll do. ”
“Others? But you’re not ‘others’. You’re…you’re…Jem. My Jem. The marriage vows aren’t…aren’t…” I found my words dwindling away.
“Ain’t talking about the likes of me?”
I was silent because that most horrid of sentiments—sudden realisation—was sweeping over me, laying bare a terrible landscape.
“But, Jem, it’s not that I want to marry her, but I must pretend I do. I must say and do all the right things. Don’t you see? So, can we not simply pretend about that too? It does not seem so very different.”
“Don’t know,” he muttered, but a hundred yards later, he added, “ Is different, though, ain’t it? When we stay quiet about something we done, we both know it. Ain’t no lie between us. You had a wife, she wouldn’t know.”
“But I have to lie, to get through life.
I lie all the time, to everyone but you.
I lie about what I want and what I like.
I lie about who I am and what I believe.
Because I must. And, lately, I have lied for you too, and for George and Milly and Mrs Fowke, because you are my folk and I love you and I wish us to all continue as we are for as long as I can contrive it, because the rectory is the only home I have ever had, and it is your home too, and theirs.
“And I do not know what Lady Catherine would do to us if she became truly angry with me. But I fear it. I fear it most terribly. She could, perhaps, not take the living from me without difficultly, yet even that she could do. She knows the bishop. He is her cousin by marriage, did I tell you? And there are other things she could do. Quiet words in certain quarters. A particular look when she speaks of me. She could turn the parish against me simply by driving past without waving her hand. I don’t understand why that should be so, and yet it is.
So, yes, I must tell lies to get through life, and I do my best to make sure nobody finds out they are being lied to, and I do my best to atone for my existence by doing my duty as best I can.
” I took a deep breath. “I thought you knew all this.”
He pushed his hat back and scratched his hair furiously. “I do know. You have given me a home. You always were loyal. To a fault, maybe. But…a wife. I don’t know. It’s different , somehow. It is . It’s some poor little maid as don’t know nothing.”
“She won’t know nothing,” I corrected. “She will have met me and I will be certain to describe Hunsford and the rectory in great detail so she may make as informed a decision as possible.”
“Won’t meet you though, will she? She’ll meet the rector of Hunsford, what don’t approve of novel-reading and what spends half his time thinking up compliments to Lady Catherine when he’d like to run a mile from the old besom.”