As she walked him to the door at the end of his visit, he said, “I hope to see you again in the autumn, but at the very latest I count on seeing you again next winter here, in London.” He turned towards her. He took her hand and kissed it. “I promise you that I very much look forward to that time, whenever or wherever it is, when I can be in your company again.”
Mary was too stunned to make a reply before he whisked himself out the door. Staring after him, long after he was gone, Mary was very conscious of the way his kiss had burned the back of her hand. She was also conscious of a deep sense of loss, as strong as, though very different from, the loss she had felt at the death of her husband.
The only thing that made her able to breathe and walk back into the parlor was the knowledge that she would see him again and that he looked forward to the meeting.
For several weeks after Mr. Worsley’s departure from London, Mary soldiered on, as she had always done, not sharing her thoughts or feelings with anyone. Elizabeth remained ignorant, likely attributing any reticence in Mary to either her natural seriousness or to her ongoing mourning period. A couple of her friends noticed, however.
It was Lady Matlock who first asked about Mary’s low spirits in late April. She was visiting Mary one morning, and the two of them were alone, since Elizabeth was out walking.
“Mary,” she said, “I am growing quite concerned about you. Every time I see you, you are less animated than before. It can’t be because of your mourning, else the trend would be going in the opposite direction. Will you confide in me?”
There was no way in all the world that Mary would tell Lady Matlock that she missed Mr. Worsley. It felt as though admitting to such a feeling was wrong, a betrayal of her late husband and the vows she had made to him. As she thought about how to express herself, Lady Matlock said, “Are you missing someone? Someone besides Mr. Allen, I mean.”
Mary studied her friend’s face to determine if the Lady knew how close she was to the truth, but it was impossible to tell. Lady Matlock was a veteran of London society, and she gave nothing away that she did not wish to.
Unwilling to lie and unable to come up with a deflection, Mary simply nodded her head.
“Is it a gentleman?” Lady Matlock asked.
Suddenly, tears stung Mary’s eyes. She could not fathom why the simple question brought her to tears, but the sorrow of longing for someone who was not there burst from her. She was crying, though she did not know if she was crying for Mr. Allenor Mr. Worsley. All she knew was that someone who should be essential to her life was missing.
Lady Matlock suddenly got up and went to sit next to Mary on the sofa. She wrapped her arms around Mary and Mary laid her forehead on the Lady’s shoulder. The kindness and comfort loosened something within her, allowing sobs to tear from her throat and wrack her body. She had not cried so hard since the week after Mr. Allen died.
Lady Matlock let her cry herself out, occasionally rocking her or making soothing noises but not attempting to stem her tears. She gave Mary a handkerchief when she needed it and replaced it when it became soaked.
Eventually, Mary could cry no more. Though she was more aware of her heavy heart than ever before, she could feel that the release of her tears made it feel a bit lighter and easier to bear for now.
When the deluge was over, Lady Matlock said, “Mary, I love you dearly, but you have a bad habit of attempting to bear everything by yourself. I can see it in the devotion you give to your charity work. You seem to want to take on all the world’s ills. I can see it in your devotion to your sister, Miss Bennet, as you spoil her with far more than you ever purchase for yourself. You are selfless, and that is often considered an ideal quality in a lady.
“But…in your case, you take it too far. You must share the burden of your trials with others, to lighten the load on your shoulders, so that you may then help lighten the load of others.”
Lady Matlock’s words resonated within Mary’s soul. They were true, and they were what she needed to hear in that moment.
Knowing that she needed to unburden herself, however, did not automatically give her the ability to do so. She didn’t have the understanding of her own heart necessary to put it all into words, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt, that her feelings themselves were sinful.
“I miss…” she paused, “Mr. Allen. Yes, I miss him, because he was always so wise and always knew what to do. He had authority and presence, and whatever he thought needed to be done was done in an efficient manner.”
“And?” asked Lady Matlock.
“And, I miss…” again she trailed off. “I miss Mr. Worsley.” The tears that Mary thought were gone threatened to spill again, but this time she held them back.
“I do wonder,” said Lady Matlock, “why you are missing him now. After all, you went many months last year without seeing him, likely without even thinking about him. What is different now?”
“I don’t know,” Mary said hesitantly. It sounded like a lie, and she cringed.
“I think you do know,” said Lady Matlock. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
“I love him!” The words burst forth from her soul, and for a brief moment she felt joyful. Then, memories of her husband came crashing back down upon her. “But it is wrong. I shouldn’t. I can’t,” she said.
“Mary, despite the fact that you are in mourning for your husband, the reality of it is that he is dead, gone, passed out of this world. Your marriage vows were only valid until the day he died. Though society’s rules tell us that a woman must mourn her husband for a respectable amount of time, it is simply a custom, not a law. No court, either in heaven or on earth, wouldcondemn you for developing feelings for another man after your husband is gone.”
“Then what should I do?” asked Mary.
“What do you want to do?” asked Lady Matlock.
“I want him to come back to London,” she said immediately.
“That is what you want Mr. Worsley to do,” said Lady Matlock, “not what you want to do.”
