Page 10 of Hidden Desires
MARY STRETCHED AND YAWNED, her latest dream fresh in her mind. For the fourth or perhaps fifth night, her imagination had returned to that militiaman, his eyes fixed on her with a hunger she could not forget.
She reached for her Bible, determined to root out every sinful thought before they took a deeper hold.
But as she opened it, the words blurred.
Instead of scripture, she saw him standing in the street, uniform bright in the afternoon sun, watching her with a smile that promised everything she feared and could not name.
She closed the book at once, pressing her palms to the cover as though she could force her mind into obedience.
After a moment, she tried again. This time, she read a full page before the same image intruded. Wickham leaning forward slightly, as if he might cross the distance between them and speak her name. She shut the book more forcefully, her heart thudding.
A third attempt proved no better. She managed a single verse before her cheeks grew hot, remembering the way he had run his tongue over his lips, as if inviting her to imagine more. The Bible slid from her hands to the coverlet, forgotten.
She stood and crossed to the window, hoping fresh air might cool her thoughts.
Morning had come, clear and bright. A few clouds drifted across the sky, casting shifting shadows over the lawn.
At the far edge of the property, trees stood dark against the new green of the season.
Beneath them, flowers opened in pale clusters, untouched by any turmoil but her own.
Perhaps a walk would steady her. She dressed in a hurry, her fingers clumsy on the buttons, and stepped into the corridor. As she passed the door of the music room, she hesitated, thinking the pianoforte might offer distraction.
She entered and seated herself, placing her hands on the keys.
The first chords sounded rich and certain, but before she reached the end of the measure, her mind drifted again.
She could almost feel the weight of Wickham’s gaze, as if he stood just behind her, close enough that she need only turn her head to meet his mouth with her own.
Mary struck a dissonant note and dropped her hands into her lap.
What shall I do? Since that day in Meryton, I have thought of nothing but him.
She rose and left the music room. No prayer, no hymn, no sermon could drive out the memory. If she remained indoors, she would suffocate under the weight of her shame.
Outside, she followed the path past the garden and through the orchard, hoping the cool breeze and birdsong might grant her some measure of calm. Yet every step only sharpened her awareness of what she had lost—some fragile innocence she could never recover.
If I had any sense, I would stop. I would tear this weakness from my soul before it grows. But I do not. I cannot.
* * *
“Are you prepared for this?” Jane asked as the carriage passed through the gates and entered the Netherfield property.
“You might have asked before we started,” Bennet said.
His smile, faint but unmistakable, deepened her concern.
“If I am not? It seems a poor time to retreat. Would you have me apologize for bad judgment, then tell him I have changed my mind? That is not the act of a friend. Besides, his injury happened at Longbourn, so I owe him as much help as I can give.”
“But Papa,” she said, her smile answering his, though tinged with doubt, “the neglect here began nearly ten years ago. Have either of you considered the possibility that restoring it is beyond your reach? Perhaps he should rest, read, or take up something less demanding while his ankle mends. Miss Bingley fears he will overreach himself, given that he has never managed an estate. His interests have always leaned toward society pleasures such as opera and theater, not toward plows or stonework.”
Bennet studied her, noting how the usual warmth had faded from her face. Her brows drew together, and the smile she offered seemed uncertain, more a habit than a true expression of ease.
“She brings that up often,” Jane said, “always mentioning what he gives up by staying here instead of returning to London.”
“He seems unmoved by the loss,” Bennet said.
“His thoughts are fixed on the land, the tenants, and what he can do to put things right. He believes that restoring the house in turn lifts the spirits of those who endured its neglect. They stayed despite mismanagement, holding fast through lean years, and he means to repay their loyalty with action. That resolve speaks more of his character than any taste for art or music. The man is depending on me, and I cannot let him down.”
Since work began, Bennet had passed most days at Netherfield, offering counsel and oversight while laborers cleared rooms, mended walls, and opened long-shuttered windows.
Jane often joined him, claiming her presence would strengthen her acquaintance with Miss Bingley, though she always greeted Bingley first.
When the carriage came to a halt, Bennet stepped down and turned to help Jane from the seat.
“Ah, Mr. Bennet,” the apothecary called from the entry as they approached. “I have just finished examining Mr. Bingley. He is much improved, though he must keep off that foot for at least two more weeks. He did not receive the advice with grace.”
“Then I suspect he has begun to agree with his sister,” Bennet said, glancing toward the door as though expecting Bingley to burst forth in protest. “You must forgive him if he starts calling you a quack.”
“He is desperate to help,” Mr. Jones agreed, settling into the seat of his curricle and gathering the reins. “His greatest fear is that you will think him shiftless if he does nothing while others labor.”
“Let me speak with him,” Bennet said with a sigh as he stepped into the house, while the apothecary set the horses in motion.
“Mr. Jones claims you are ignoring his instructions,” he said as Jane greeted Bingley and sat between the siblings, a choice that drew a frown and lifted nose from Miss Bingley.
“My foot is healing, and I want to help,” Bingley said. “Watching the work will do no harm, and I need to see progress.”
“Your ankle is weaker than you claim,” Bennet said, noting the grimace Bingley failed to hide as he shifted. “I understand your frustration, but I will not allow you to injure yourself again.”
Bennet watched him struggle to remain still, the confinement pressing in and worsening his restlessness. Leaving the matter unresolved was unwise, but to ignore the apothecary’s advice could hinder his recovery.
“What if we move the sofa to the garden?” he said. “You can sit on the terrace, enjoy the sun, and watch the repairs without doing further harm.”
“What a wonderful idea.” Jane clapped her hands, drawing a glare from his sister. “That may even help your recovery.”
“Charles, you should stay in the house,” Miss Bingley said, her voice tight with purpose as she tried to remove Jane from the discussion. “Do not be in such a hurry to help that you make foolish decisions. Wait for Mr. Darcy to judge the matter.”
“What danger is there in sitting outdoors?” he asked. “Darcy will not object to a bit of sun; in fact, he will see the benefit.”
“That injury clouds your judgment,” she replied, her simpering tone drawing a quiet chuckle from Bennet, which he hid from everyone but Jane. “Even the apothecary, whose medical knowledge is doubtful, told you to remain still. Why not wait for Mr. Darcy? He will know what to do.”
“I refuse to remain a prisoner for another seven days,” Bingley snapped.
His sister’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping in a most unflattering way.
“His reply came this morning. He cannot arrive before the end of next week.”
“That is unfortunate,” Bennet said, “as I hoped to speak with him about your plans for the estate. We shall be well into the repairs by then.”
“Let me take you to London, where a proper physician can examine you,” Miss Bingley said. “I am sure Mr. Darcy would rather visit you there than in this disgraceful hovel.”
“Mr. Jones has given me excellent care,” Bingley said. “You should be grateful I escaped permanent harm.”
The woman did not reply, but the anger in her eyes promised a reckoning once she had her brother alone, if Bennet read the flush on her face correctly.
“No,” Bingley said, giving his head a firm shake. “I have had enough of sitting idle while everyone else works. Bennet, your suggestion is a good one. Caroline, please summon a few of the servants so I can enjoy the weather.”
Without further argument, two of Netherfield’s grooms carried the chaise to the terrace, while a third, stout fellow gathered him up with surprising ease. The lift drew a strained sound and left his face pale, though he tried to mask the discomfort as he settled into the chaise and looked away.
The afternoon passed in a rush of work, with tasks begun and completed, obstacles overcome, and fresh plans laid.
“We are finished for the day,” Bennet said, waking his friend, who had dozed off beneath the sun. “Those two men you lent me got a great deal done. If I had not kept getting in their way, there is no telling how much more they might have accomplished.”
Bingley laughed and shook his head. “If you had not stopped them, they might have had to do most of it over again.”
Bennet chuckled, surprised by the accuracy of the remark. “Say nothing to them. They both worked hard at tasks I doubt they had done before. How often is a groom told to mend a wall or pull out a paddock fence? Still, they did what I asked without complaint.”
“That is why I chose them,” Bingley said with a nod. “Of all the servants at Netherfield, those two grumble the least. The others would try, but they complain the moment they think no one is listening.”
Bennet laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Then give me the same fellows again tomorrow. There is more to tear down before we begin to rebuild.”