Chapter 32 I Am Engaged
I Am Engaged
Do I like being engaged to Pike? Do I, in fact, like Pike? Well… Think of it this way.
Consider Pike himself. Did he enjoy being dependent on my serums? Was his situation, in which I could play upon his character as upon the harp, absolutely what he would choose?
Perhaps not. However, it was his best choice, as the only alternative was death.
My situation is not dissimilar. In my case, the alternative is not death, but something rather worse: spinsterhood.
Dependence. No laboratory. Whatever free time I had would be at the disposal of whichever sister deigned to shelter me.
I could foresee a life of no more value than providing a fourth at bridge.
Pike’s smell has grown no more attractive than it ever was formerly. He no longer smells of paste and ink, but like a fine gentleman: pomade and fine cloth and a hint of scent. Underneath all his luxuries, though, there is still a thread of a scent of the Pike of old.
Something that, when it hits my nose, makes me go cold inside. Just a hint of sterile, dusty death.
However, what does it matter? Once we are married, I will hardly ever have to come within smelling distance of the man.
I hold the reins in our relationship, and will continue to hold them once we are married.
I shall induce Pike to build a large house, and we can each occupy an end of it.
Perhaps we will go north after all. If we lived somewhere out on the moors, no one would wonder that we kept no company and rarely came within shouting distance of one another.
Of course, I know I would be sinning by denying him his husbandly rights.
However, Pike is so pliable at present to my whims that I foresee no protest from him.
Perhaps I could perform the act just once, and get it out of the way.
Or perhaps, once we were married, I would become like other girls at last, and find the thought of the act less repulsive.
And other than Pike himself, I rather like being engaged to Pike. People smile now when they see me. Mamma speaks of me with pride. She and I have spent hours making my trousseau, and I am surprised at how nice it is to have her all to myself.
I am Mamma’s last daughter to be married, and the least urgent one.
Kitty is well settled, Jane and Lizzy are spectacularly settled, and Lydia is at least disposed of.
Now that I am marrying, too, and marrying much better than anyone had expected, Mamma views my upcoming nuptials as a sort of finish line to her long, grueling matrimonial race.
She is taking more time over my trousseau than she did with any of the others.
Mamma gives me advice and tells me stories about when I was a baby, and we show each other how to do stitches we did not know, and all the while we are covering my trousseau in a perfect cloud of flowers and fruits and birds and clovers and hearts.
I know I have stated my preference for simple, dark clothing, and it is true, but my preference for wearing simple clothing is matched if not outstripped by my enjoyment of making the most difficult, complex clothing possible.
In this case I decided that the sacrifice is worth it.
It is silly, perhaps, for a grown woman to care so much that her mother loves her at last—but I must own I find it enjoyable.
Any time I regret my engagement, I think of the words from Quindley’s : “A young lady who breaks off an engagement, for any but the gravest misconduct on the part of her future spouse, shows herself to be frivolous and flighty, and does as much damage to her honor, and gives as much pain to her family, as if she had abandoned her husband after marriage.”
If, after rereading that passage, I still have doubts, I think of the relief on my mother’s face.
I am ready—eager, even—to stop being Mary Bennet.
Becoming Mrs. Pike is a prospect I look forward to with relief, like the oblivion of sleep at the end of a long day.
At last, the future holds no fear, and the past no shame.
Pike is acceptable. Poverty is avoidable.
I have, for the first time in my life, a solid place to stand.
There is of course the trifling business of Pike’s factory but
Dropped my pen. Bother. Hands shaking rather for some reason.
No matter. It is nothing. It must be nothing. Everything is all right. It is just that
To tell the truth, the idea of writing to “Harry” grows stale. He died when I was eight. It is not Harry to whom I wish to unburden myself, from whom I need advice; it is
No!
She is gone. That is for the best. We can only hurt each other.
Tomorrow, Harry. Tomorrow, I shall gather my strength, and tell you—only you—what has arisen. Then I will see that there is nothing to worry about.
I pray she does not come to my wedding.
29 November, 18--
Pike’s factory opened at last two weeks ago. Meryton does not know what to make of having a factory so near at hand. It is so unusual that even the most judgmental scolds scarcely knew what to judge them for .
Men like Bingley proved that it was entirely possible to make one’s fortune in trade and still be welcomed by good society—even, if the fortune was big enough, celebrated.
All good society asked in return was that the family in question hide away the source of their wealth like something shameful.
The Bingleys of the world must be separated from their factories by several hundred miles and, ideally, several generations.
My uncle Gardiner, a prosperous and genteel man, would never be a truly sought-after guest, for he lived within sight of his London factories.
However, Pike was by now such a favorite that Meryton carved out an uncomfortable exception for him. And the Brown mill was a few miles downriver from Meryton proper, so at first it was easy enough to ignore.
There would have been grumbling, I expect, had Pike hired local people. No one would have liked it if he’d poached their servants or raised the cost of a gardener or milkmaid. But, as I have mentioned, he did no such thing. Instead he imported his workforce.
The young Irish women became a common enough sight on the road to Pike’s factory. Those who have encountered them reported that they spoke no English.
Otherwise, they kept to themselves. For the most part, this suited everyone, for no one knew what to make of Meryton as a factory town. There were about twenty of them, and they did all their eating and sleeping at the factory, not even coming to church on Sunday.
“Well, no doubt they’re papists,” Papa said. “The smoke ceases on those days, so I am sure he gives them the day off.”
Why, Harry, do you suppose we converse so easily about money but so haltingly about where it comes from?
I once met a baron’s son with a gorgeous country house and, everyone said, ten thousand a year.
This information was conveyed quite stridently, but they all dropped their voices to convey that all that money came not from centuries of wise and benevolent landlordhood, but rather from sugar plantations in the Indies.
In any case, it worked to Pike’s advantage, which I suppose means it is to mine as well.
Everyone determinedly ignores his factory, just as surely as they would if he had properly placed it hundreds of miles to the north.
And he makes it easy for them, for most days the only sign of its presence among us is a plume of smoke above the trees.
As for me, though, I have always had trouble not noticing the things I am meant not to notice.
I have been walking a great deal lately.
Since Miss Darcy left, I have a great deal more free time.
The other day—early in the morning, well before most well-bred people stir—I was walking on the winding lane north of Meryton.
I did not consciously set out to pass my intended husband’s factory, but my feet turned in that direction.
That is when I met the Irish girl again.
She looked different now. Her color higher, her eyes brighter. When she saw me, she flinched and turned to run back toward the factory, but when she saw it was me, she slowed and gave me a smile.
“Dia duit,” she said softly.
And with that, my Irish lessons resumed.
Every morning, I go for an early walk and find her there. She looks more tired than she did when I first met her, so I am surprised she makes the time for me, but I am exceedingly grateful for the distraction.
It is difficult, with no shared language, but I believe I get on well. I can now say complete sentences, like My dress is green and I have four sisters , and though she often laughs at my grammar or my accent or both, she seems as determined as I am that I should progress.
There is no reason on earth for me to keep such a thing a secret. No reason at all. Her master is my fiancé. I could quite properly tell him. I ought to tell him.
I have not told anyone.
Why, Harry? Why do I keep this commonplace interaction a secret?
Perhaps it is her feet. Every time I meet her, she is standing outside in the lane. Her feet are always pointed away, as if she means to set out away from the factory and never return.
When the bell rings, she seems to have to drag herself back inside.
I am making too much of that. Everyone drags their feet going back to work, I suppose. Perhaps it is the look on her face. I see no sign that she is being mistreated—if anything, she looks better fed than some of the milkmaids hereabouts—but she seems… frightened.
Oh, perhaps I am imagining it. It is not long now until I shall be Mary Pike, and the thought is itself a bit frightening, after all.
I am, to be strictly accurate, marrying a dead man.
Who knows what the future will hold? I am sure the spark of fear I imagine I see in her eyes is nothing but the fear of my own heart.