Today it has been raining without stop, and I have closed myself in my parlor with the fire lit and my chair dragged nearer the window, the better to make use of its pale gray light. I have not answered my mother’s letter, and I have not mentioned its contents to William. Instead, I drown out thoughts of what I ought to be doing with the scratch of my pencil against paper, losing myself in line and shadow. The task is restful; I don’t have to think, which is exactly what I need right now. There is something comforting in the idea that in this, at least, I can muddle along and, slowly, see small improvements with each attempt.
When at last I raise my head and find that it is already time for tea, I have again discarded more drawings than not. But there are a few—small studies, merely, unpolished and taken entirely from memory—that I think, perhaps, I can eventually turn into something better.
THE AIR IS fresh and cool, the ground still wet, but I am determined to take Louisa for a walk. She has been cooped up in the house for far too long, without even the occasional run around the garden. Her little legs want stretching. And I want—I want—something. To be out of the house. Out of the yard. Away from the letter that still waits for my response in the parlor.
I lace us both into our sturdiest boots and we set out down the lane. Louisa dashes toward every puddle, and despite my best efforts we have not gone far out of sight of the parsonage before her boots, stockings, and hem are filthy. The leaves are starting to turn; I point out the colors as we pass, though I am not sure whether Louisa hears me at all, so intent is she upon dragging a stick through the mud behind her.
We leave the woods behind and head out through the fields. I feel the damp dragging at my skirt and petticoat and lift my hems. My legs are free to stride as they please; I run with my child through the tall grass.
It is Louisa who spots him first, stopping short and raising a finger to point. I look, and there is Mr. Travis, small at this distance but still unmistakable. He lifts his hat; I take Louisa’s hand and pull her forward.
“Mrs. Collins, Miss Collins.” Mr. Travis smiles, highlighting the lines about his eyes and mouth. “It is a rather damp day for a walk.”
“We have been kept inside far too long. Louisa has been going a bit mad.”
He reaches out a hand to touch Louisa’s round cheek. “She has grown, even since I saw her last.”
“I think she has grown since I saw her last.”
A chuckle, then a pause. “What is your destination?”
“I did not have one in mind.” I peer up at him. “And yours?”
His face is so tan that it is difficult to tell, but I think perhaps he is flushing. “I . . . had a mind to check on your roses.”
Now it is I who blushes. His smile is rueful. But when I speak, it is with an air of nonchalance. “I take this walk frequently,” I say. “I like the . . . solitude. It is rare that we see another person.”
He lifts his brows. “Then I suppose I should apologize for intruding on your solitude.”
I shake my head. “In your case, there is no intrusion.”
He smiles, wide and toothy, and looks away across the field. We both watch Louisa, her dress soaked from hem to knee, as she wanders away from us. I set my mind to the task of finding something mundane to say and settle at last upon, “Mr. Collins tells me the harvest was particularly abundant this year. Lady Catherine is very pleased.”
“As are her tenants,” Mr. Travis says dryly. “Though there is some concern that such abundance might lead her ladyship to think the time is right to increase rents.”
My brows go up. “Indeed? Has she done so in the past?”
“To her credit, generally only in times of plenty, when we can best afford it. Though it does rankle somewhat that we are unable, then, to enjoy increased prosperity ourselves. And it might be that it is Mr. Colt whom we have to thank in such cases; I do not know how deeply involved Lady Catherine herself is in the running of the estate.”
“Nor do I, though I would be . . . surprised . . . if Lady Catherine did not take an interest in all aspects of her estate.”
We exchange quick smiles and both look away again.
“Well,” he says at last. “If rents are increased, I fear there will be more parishioners in need of your assistance this winter.”
I look at Louisa, who has chosen to sit herself down in the middle of the field, no doubt adding mud and grass stains to the wetness of her skirt. I should scold her but cannot muster the will; instead, my mind has flown back to my parlor and the letter tucked into a cubby in my writing desk.
“There is a chance,” I say slowly, “that we will no longer be in Kent this winter.”
Speaking the words releases some pressure within me, and I exhale a great breath.
Mr. Travis stands statue-like for a moment, then says, “Why?”
I tell him, haltingly, about my mother’s letter. “It could be nothing. Mr. Bennet might be perfectly well at this very moment. But . . . even if he is, he will not live forever. Mr. Collins is heir to the estate; someday, we must leave here.”
I’ve always known this, of course; indeed, when I accepted William’s proposal, it was with the glad understanding that our time in Kent would be limited, and that I would someday return to Hertfordshire and be near my family. But it is only now that the reality of my situation is no longer something to anticipate with pleasure. Nothing has changed, not truly, and yet my world is slipping sideways, away from me.
Mr. Travis clears his throat. I look at him, sturdy and windblown. He does not smile now, though his eyes are gentle under those wild brows. He bends at the waist, a small bow.
As he rises he says, “Your friends will have to make the most of your company, then, while they still have it.”