“Do you travel, Mr. Porter?” Mary asked.
“I have done so a great deal in the past, though I suspect I won’t travel much in the future,” he said. “I will likely simply move back and forth between my two homes.”
“And where are those?” she asked.
“I grew up in Derbyshire,” he said, not truly answering her question. “I also have a home in London.”
“Derbyshire?” she asked. “Then perhaps you have heard of one of my other brothers-in-law, Mr. Darcy. I understand he is well-known in that part of the country.”
Something about her comment lifted the corner of Mr. Porter’s mouth into a slight half-smile. “I have, indeed,” he said. “One cannot live in that county without having heard of the man. They say his property rivals that of Matlock.”
“I cannot say anything about Matlock, but I can say with certainty that Pemberley is very grand, indeed,” said Mary.
“Ah, have you been there?” he asked. “Since it is your sister’s home I imagine you have visited a few times.”
Mary shook her head. “I have not had that privilege,” she said. “Since I am the last daughter at home, Mama likes to keep me nearby.” She did not mention that Elizabeth almost certainly thought her too boring for company. “However, Elizabeth writes to me regularly, and her letters from her early marriage contained many detailed descriptions of the house and its grounds.”
“Well, it just so happens that I have seen both houses from a distance,” said Mr. Porter. “I can say that Matlock is more grand, but Pemberley is more beautiful.”
They chatted a bit longer, comparing the two great houses, but Mr. Porter couldn’t give too many details. When she pressed him for more, he replied that he had not seen either from close up, nor had he seen the interiors.
Mary got the distinct impression he was withholding information, but she was so pleased that he didn’t seem bored as he had all evening, that she allowed him to keep his secrets.
After a few minutes, Mr. Porter rose and moved on to the next guest, Mrs. Bates.
Throughout the rest of the evening, Mary kept reliving that moment when he slightly smiled at her. It was the only real expression she had seen on his face all evening, and she reveled in the knowledge that she had put it there.
The next day, Mary once again wrote a letter to Mr. Porter. She enclosed a sketch of his face with the tiny half-smile which had so entranced her. Then she threw them both in the fire. Once again, the exercise accomplished nothing.
Mary sighed and did her best to push down her feelings.
~~~~
John Fitzwilliam, known to the locals as Mr. Eric Porter, was glad he had decided to come to Hertfordshire. His new, temporary neighbors were friendly but not intrusive. When he wanted company, it was easy enough to find, but he was not importuned at all hours of the day. When he wanted solitude, which was quite often, there was nothing standing in his way.
He spent most of his days rambling through Netherfield Park, both on the inside and on the outside. There were plenty of little things to discover, like the pair of candlesticks that sat on a shelf in the breakfast room.
It was a room that seldom, if ever, needed candles, so they drew his attention. Then, when he studied them, he realized that one of them was heavier than the other. He assumed the lighter one was a fake and that the original had been stolen. He spent at least an hour making up scenarios explaining why only one had been stolen instead of both.
John also spent a great deal of time exploring the woods that lay between Netherfield and the neighboring property. Since it was three quarters of a mile wide, it was easy to lose himself there, both figuratively and literally. He had to be conscious of the time while in that magical place so that if he couldn’t tell which way to go to get home, he could use the sun to give him direction.
About a week into March, John saw the first new leaves begin to sprout on the once dead trees. Watching their gradual growth became quite fascinating. As he watched their progress, he noticed other plants coming back to life. He ordered a bookon common forest plants so he could enjoy trying to identify what he was seeing.
Noticing the green coming back to the forest was not his only purpose in rambling through those woods. In the second half of February, he had found an even more interesting sight which kept him returning as often as he could in hopes that he would see it again.
Miss Mary Bennet.
It was in the week between when he first met her at a card party and when he saw her again at a dinner party. At the card party, he hadn’t paid much attention to her other than as an excellent whist partner. She was steady and measured in her choices, and she focused on the game as much as he did.
He had noted that she was Darcy’s sister-in-law, though he hadn’t heard much about her. The only thing he could remember was Darcy complaining about the lack of propriety in his new sisters in the first few months after his wedding.
This young lady did not seem to have any lack in that department, however. She spoke quietly and calmly even when she was playing a more casual game where some of the players got overly excited. She seldom smiled, but she didn’t seem particularly forbidding, either.
If he had to describe her in one word, it would be “plain,” but not in the way it was commonly used, as a euphemism for ugly or unpleasant. Rather in the true sense of the word. There simply wasn’t anything interesting about her in the least.
His entire perspective of Miss Bennet changed, however, when he saw her in the woods one day.
He was rambling on his own, as he often did, enjoying the comforting solitude that was best found in the company of thetrees. He stopped moving when he heard the distant sound of someone singing.
