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Chapter Twenty-One
Aunt Gardiner did not make suggestions, pronounce judgment, or attempt to organise my scattered emotions. Instead, she let me cry, then sent me to bed where, to my surprise, I slept for two hours. When I awakened, my niece and nephews were eagerly awaiting my appearance, and happily displayed recent achievements and related all of their own news.
I contrived to set aside my troubles and simply bask within the warmth of family. Mrs Spengler told stories of my aunt as a young girl; Ellen displayed for me a perfectly marvellous portrait of her younger brothers—although she did complain of their tendency to wander off while posing—and the boys vied with each other to entertain me with amusing anecdotes. I tried not to think of what it would be like to have my own children mussing the elegant formality of Pemberley.
The Gardiners had always had the children dine with them, once they were at the age where they might participate without disrupting dinner, and I looked forward to a lively meal when delicious smells began wafting through the parlour and Mrs Gardiner announced dinner should soon be served.
“But where is Mr Martin, Mummy?” Michael asked. “Shall I fetch him?”
“He will not join us tonight while we have company,” she replied.
“Mr Martin? Is that not your hired man?” I asked, somewhat taken aback to hear he was, evidently, a regular guest at the dinner table.
But my aunt just smiled. “He joins us when he will,” was her only comment. I was quickly distracted by the enthusiastic sounds, courtesy of Edward, of an old-fashioned dinner gong—another happily transplanted Gracechurch Street tradition. My appetite was restored by Mrs Spengler’s excellent cook and my family’s spirited conversations. Oh, it was good to be with them! How I wished that, someday, I might have the opportunity to bring my own children here, just as I had been taken to Gracechurch Street by my parents.
* * *
The next few days, the weather restored, I determinedly decided not to think nor speak of my troubles. I caught my aunt’s thoughtful glances every so often, but she let me be. I was introduced to the hired man, however, and here I found something of a mystery.
He was perhaps in his mid-forties, large in stature, quiet in nature. Neither handsome nor ill-looking, his clothing was a good deal finer than that worn by any hired man I had ever before met. When I mentioned this later to my aunt, she blithely replied that he had donned his Sunday best in order to make a good impression upon me, and not to fear—while he repaired the roof, he wore fabrics more suited to the task. The sarcasm was quite unusual to her.
His manners were impeccable. While his speech was not, perhaps, that of a gentleman, he was obviously no simple villager. And yet, he performed the humblest of chores—repairs to the aforementioned roof, tilling the kitchen garden, fixing fenceposts, and everything in between. The stable, once derelict, was now sound; he stayed in the rooms above them, which he had refurbished himself. He had even arranged for a neighbour to rent a good portion of once- neglected land for grazing sheep, bringing income to Mrs Spengler.
I was deeply impressed but also slightly alarmed—mostly by my aunt’s unapproachable manner when I hinted of my concerns. Perhaps he was some down-on-his-luck wanderer, of better birth than his circumstance now indicated, but my aunt—usually so sensible—ought to guard against being quite so familiar with him. A woman alone must be very careful. Certainly, there was nothing improper in the behaviour of either; on the contrary, he was a very interesting gentleman, almost scientific in his knowledge of botany—a favourite subject of my own—and my aunt was the furthest thing from flirtatious.
I considered myself more egalitarian than most. The world was changing, in many ways for the better. I believed a man could improve his lot in life, and heaven only knew, the blue blood of Lady Matlock had not influenced her character for the better. While my father might never have entertained the thought of a hired man at his table, I was inclined to believe Aunt Gardiner should dine with whomever she pleased. But her children? What would my uncle think of that? The servants my aunt brought with her would be loyal but if Mrs Spengler’s servants gossiped about it in the village, her reputation could be ruined and her family’s as well.
The day I saw Edward in the garden, chattering away about something while Mr Martin pruned rose bushes, it seemed to me that matters had gotten out of hand. To be sure, Edward was the one being a bother while the man performed his chores, but there was something…affectionate in the way Mr Martin smiled down upon him, making the occasional comment. And every night, Michael continued to ask why he would not join them for dinner. My aunt’s fatherless sons were growing attached when, for all I knew, Mr Martin would be gone in the autumn; worse still, such familiarity could subject them all to gossip and scandal. I determined I must speak to her, however unpleasant I found the notion.
I waited until we were alone one afternoon, sitting together before the fire—Ellen and the boys at their lessons, Mrs Spengler napping—before I tried to put my fears into words. “About Mr Martin,” I said, and my aunt put aside her sewing with a grimace.
“Yes?”
Her tone warned me to tread carefully, and I nearly winced.
“I am sure he is a good man,” I began.
“Are you?”
I sighed. “It would be a great joke, would it not, if I were to volunteer romantic advice when my marriage of two short months is in shambles? I shall only remind you of some wise words you rendered me once, when I was indulging in an extremely foolish tendre for an extremely undeserving man. You advised me to be on my guard, and not to involve myself—or endeavour to involve him—in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent. I promise, I have nothing to say against Mr Martin; he is most fascinating. If he had the income I daresay he ought to have, or, as is likely, once had, I should think you could not do better. But as it is…my uncle Gardiner would depend upon your resolution and sense on behalf of the children. I believe you would not ever wish to disappoint him. And that is all I have to say about it.”
“Lieutenant Wickham,” she sighed, her posture relaxing. “I did advise you against him, but for none of the right reasons. I saw only what the rest of the world saw, and I believe I dredged up some memory of a slur against Mr Darcy in his childhood to repeat to you. Truly, it is difficult to know whether what the world sees is correct, or only popular.”
What did she mean by that? Was she ready to flout the opinions of an unfair world? “Wickham was beautiful in appearance, and we thought his countenance and character matched,” I replied. “I might have believed Mr Darcy a fine man too—I put such stock in physical appeal—except he had the audacity to ignore my charms when his friend attempted to push me on him. The world’s opinion of Mr Martin does not trouble me, and except for the children’s sake, I would not have mentioned it. If your good name is harmed, theirs is as well.”
She smiled sadly, smoothing the fabric of the handkerchief she had been embroidering. “Oh, my dear niece. I will always love your uncle. Since losing him, I have welcomed the oblivion of sleep and forgetting each night, only to have memory flood me upon awakening—as if he died anew with every sunrise. It has only been in the last few months that I can open my eyes without sorrow in my first waking thought.”
It broke my heart to hear the rawness of her grief, still. Who was I to pretend to know best, and what—or who—she needed in order to cope? “Oh, Auntie, I know you were the very best of wives, and are the very best of mothers. Forgive me for mentioning it, please. I am only just beginning to understand how much a wife might suffer in such situations.”
She reached over and patted my hand. “I am by no means ready to part with my widowhood, dear, and I look upon Mr Martin as only a good friend. However, if I ever did decide to remarry, I can assure you that he is both eligible and respectable.”
I raised my brows at this statement. How could this be?
“I told Mr Martin that you would quickly recognise that he is no common labourer—although, in my sorrowful straits when he first arrived, it took me much longer. I also told him that I would keep no secrets from you, but only if you brought up the subject would I reveal all. To understand the whole story, I need to go back in time. Perhaps even as much as eight years, though it is difficult to know for sure. It was a great secret, you see.”
“Secrets, Auntie?”
“Yes, indeed. The revelation of them began with Mr Ferrars. He is honest as the day is long, and he has many influential connexions, but as you are aware, your uncle provided most of the financial aptitude in their partnership. Still, as you might recall, Mr Ferrars was often able to secure investors for Mr Gardiner’s schemes, precisely because of his birth and trustworthiness. Most of the time, in fact, we knew these investors, and your uncle eventually developed his own connexions with them. On occasion, however, the investor preferred to remain anonymous.”
