I have not spoken to Mr. Travis since he left me with such haste outside the circulating library. After church on Sunday he chose not to linger with the other farmers, who gathered and talked in the cool shadows under the May tree at the edge of the green, but instead left after the service was concluded, and though I went once to visit his father, the son was toiling in a far field and, so far as I know, did not even know I was there, though my heart trip-trapped against my ribs when I spotted his figure in the distance.
Today, I am sitting with old Mr. Travis in his garden. The blanket we brought with us is spread upon the ground under me, soft and thick. Old Mr. Travis is dozing on his bench, an empty plate beside him with only a few soft, sweet crumbs remaining of his slice of the seed cake I baked this morning. Martha has Louisa by the leading ribbons, allowing the baby to explore the garden without letting her get close enough to harm the herbs and flowers.
“We heard a rumor,” says a quiet, familiar voice from behind me, “that there was cake.”
I look around at Mr. Travis. His dark hair is untidy and his clothes are dusty from the fields, but his hands, clasped together before him, have been scrubbed clean. There is uncertainty behind his eyes when they meet my own, and I feel annoyance rise—with him, for the gift of a borrowed book and for his sudden, strange vulnerability, and with myself, for accepting his offering and for the way I seem always to respond to his presence in such a nonsensical way. He is neither especially handsome nor especially learned, at least not in the things that matter in polite society; and yet I feel pulled to him, as if I am wearing invisible ribbons at the shoulders of my dress and he holds the other ends.
But I have never made a fool of myself over a man, and I refuse to start doing so now. “There is cake,” I say lightly, and cut a slice for him and one for Henry Peters, his young farmhand, who hovers at Mr. Travis’s side as if uncertain he belongs here. They eat, Henry very quickly and with mumbled thanks before he returns to his work. But Mr. Travis remains; his eyes follow Martha and Louisa as they take their turns around the garden, and at last he looks to me, delight in the lines about his mouth.
“This is new,” he says.
“Louisa is very proud of herself. And your father was in raptures when she came to him on her own, with no hand to steady her.”
“As he should have been. It is a great accomplishment. The first of many, I’m sure.”
My laugh comes out as a gust of warm air. “I hope she is more accomplished than her mother, at least.”
He looks at me inquiringly; I recline upon my forearms and stare at Louisa. Her bonnet is askew; her entire body is given over to the delight of her own physicality and to the thrill of exploration. Her two teeth stand out tipsily in her open, laughing mouth.
“I have no accomplishments,” I say at last.
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“Why? Because I am the daughter of a gentleman?”
Mr. Travis comes nearer. “May I?” he says, indicating the blanket, then settles himself upon it at my nod. He cants his head upward to look at the sky; my eyes are drawn to the sharp protrusion of his Adam’s apple and the faint shadow of bristles over his cheeks and throat.
“Because you told me yourself that you once loved to draw,” he says. “And—yes—forgive me, but I suppose I have always been under the impression that gently bred ladies have little to do but collect accomplishments.”
“Your impression was mistaken, at least in my case. Some gentlemen’s daughters spend a good portion of their day in the kitchen.”
He looks at me. I press my lips together and raise my brows. “I made the cake I brought today,” I say in response to his unspoken question. “My family has no cook, and so my mother and sister and I prepared all of our meals. My father was a merchant, Mr. Travis, until I was nearly a woman grown. When he—decided—to buy a small estate and sell his business it was . . . not the soundest of decisions.” I think of my mother’s dismay, of coming upon her once as she cried helplessly in the larder after my father announced his decision. We will all starve, she said, and though it was never anywhere near so dire as that, we did have to economize. We had a maid but no cook; we made over our dresses, sometimes more than once, rather than buy new ones.
“I had no drawing master and no governess,” I say. “Any—little—ability I have is entirely self-gleaned. What I do would certainly not be recognized as accomplished by anyone in Lady Catherine’s sphere.”
But now I think of Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s mean little cottage, so dark even during the day, with only the one room in which to cook and eat and receive visitors; of her single delicate porcelain cup, so obviously cherished. Of the fact that she had not corresponded with her sister in years, for want of just a little extra money. Everything I imagine I lack seems petty in the face of true deprivation.
“You must think me . . . quite ridiculous,” I say.
“No.” A pause, and a sly smile. “No accomplishments at all?”
I laugh—too high, too shrill, and I glance quickly at the elder Mr. Travis to make sure I have not woken him. “None,” I say. “That is—I can draw, a very little. And play—a very, very little. My mother was in charge of my education, and she cannot paint, she speaks no other languages . . . She did make sure we could dance, for how else were we to meet men?” My smile is thin. “Louisa will be better educated than I was, at least. I will make sure of that.”
“Mrs. Collins,” Mr. Travis says slowly, “I owe you an apology.”
I say, “Oh, no—” with reflexive politeness.
He shakes his head. “I was discourteous when last we met. I have no excuse—”
“It’s forgotten,” I say quickly, and he subsides, but I can feel him watching me. I think, as I have so often since it arrived, of Maria’s letter. I wonder what she and her Mr. Cowper talk about.
“My sister is engaged,” I say.
“That is excellent news.”
“It is.” Of course it is. It is. “She seems very happy.”
His eyes remain steadily upon my face. “That is as it should be when one is engaged, is it not?”
“Yes,” I say. In fact, happy does not do justice to Maria’s effusions—there is no man more handsome or with a more engaging manner; her Mr. Cowper carries himself well and dances beautifully. He is witty and kind, and everything about him is so very agreeable that she cannot imagine they will ever argue. I clear my throat, avert my eyes. I cannot bear the pressure of his scrutiny. “They have not been acquainted for very long. That is—why this is a surprise.”
“Ah.” He looks out over the garden for a moment, then adds in a careful way, “Of course, it does not follow that a short acquaintance means the match will be unhappy.”
“Of course not.” I pause. “Mr. Collins and I became engaged after only truly conversing twice.” I flick a glance at him and then away.
“Ah,” he says again.
“Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins are both disappointed by the match.”
I want to stuff my fist into my mouth, stopper myself like a bottle. I must find a way to keep my every thought from spilling from my throat when I am around this man. His mere presence cuts through the heavy layers of my reserve as if they are so much net.
“Why is that?”
I touch my lips together, then say, “Because—Maria’s intended—he is an apothecary.”
A raised brow. “A worthy profession.”
“Yes. But—it is a profession.”
Mr. Travis snorts quietly. “And there’s the rub,” he murmurs. I stare, wrong-footed by his use of such a reference; he looks back without expression.
“Really, it is not such an unequal match,” I say. “It would have been perfectly eligible if my father had not been knighted. We are not—Maria does not even have a dowry.”
His laugh has a sharp edge. “But he was knighted.”
“She sounds so happy,” I say once more.
The compassion in his eyes is suddenly intolerable, and I look down.
Louisa chooses now to crumple to the ground with a petulant cry, suddenly overcome by tiredness after so much exertion. As we both watch, she lashes out at the surrounding grass with fists and fingers.
“Oh, love,” I say on a breath, and hold out my arms. Martha brings her to me and settles her in my lap, where she rubs her knuckles against her eyes and whines as I rock her gently, back and forth.
Mr. Travis plucks long strands of grass and begins to weave them together, his big fingers managing the delicate work with incongruous ease. When he is finished, he holds out the grass plait.
“For you, little miss,” he says, startling Louisa out of her ill temper. After a moment she takes it in her fist, examining it; then she waves it madly. He grins.