But he would leave. And he would never return. And Mary would be left knowing that she would never see the most interesting man she had ever known again.
Mary did not write another letter that morning. She had written six already, and she had burnt them all up. The ashes had been swept away, and there was nothing left of the words those letters contained. Despite this, her feelings remained within her. With such failure in her methods, there was no point in attempting it again.
She decided to go for a walk.
Once she was within the trees, she began to sing a slow, sorrowful song. Sometimes, within the solitude of the trees, she would simply make up her own tunes, but this time, she sang a song she knew well.
The water is wide and I can't cross over
Neither have I wings that I could fly
Build me a boat that can carry two
And both shall row my love and I.
There is a ship and it sails on the sea
Loaded deep as deep can be
But not as deep as the love I'm in
I know not if I sink or swim.
I leaned my back up against an oak
Thinkin' it was a trusty tree
But first it bent and then it broke
Just like my own false love to me.
Oh love is gentle, love is kind
Gay as a jewel when first it's new
But love grows old and waxes cold
And fades away like some morning dew.
The water is wide and I can't cross over
Neither have I wings to fly
Build me a boat that can carry two
And both shall row my love and I
It was a song that felt as old as time. Mary had sung it many times before when she was first learning to play the piano. Its simplistic accompaniment made for good piano practice, and its slow pace and drawn-out notes helped promote proper voice control. It was not usually one of her favorites, however. She usually thought it too sentimental and too slow. It had been several years since she had played or sung it and many months since she had even thought of it.
Now, however, it perfectly expressed how she felt, especially the second verse. Each verse, each phrase, despite their contradicting messages, expressed either a wish, a fear, or a present feeling.
She did not dance as she sang. Somehow, dancing to such a sorrowful tune when her heart felt as heavy as stone seemed impossible. But she strolled through the woods singing with all the sorrow, all the love, all the exceedingly complex feeling she could put into her voice.
Chapter 9
The day after the card party at Longbourn, John went out to the forest as usual. He took his sketchbook and some spare pencils, telling himself that he wished to look for newly sprouted plants he had not seen before. He did not wish to admit, even to himself, that he was hoping to see Miss Bennet. After partnering her at whist last night, she was beginning to be a little too fascinating to him.
He reminded himself that he was married, even though his marriage was completely loveless. Despite not receiving any love or affection from his wife in three years, ever since they had discovered she was barren, he had never even contemplated breaking his marriage vows, not even with the professional ladies so ubiquitous in London.
