Unexpected Miss Bennet (9781101552780) Read online

  With the piano no longer bringing joy, Mary turned to her sermons, but the familiar words no longer brought the same comfort. She had read Fordyce’s Sermons for Young Women so often that the pages had become smudged under her nimble fingers. Now, she read them with a less captivated eye. Where before she had found herself nodding in agreement with his admonitions concerning grace, charity, and humility, in which his opinions had so much become her own that she hardly knew where his left off and hers began, she now began to grow uneasy. For instance, had her copy of the sermons always held this counsel?

  It is very true, there are young ladies who, without any particular advantage of a natural ear or a good voice, have by means of circumstances peculiarly favourable, made great proficiency in music: But it is true that they have made it at a vast expense of time and application such as no woman ought to bestow upon an object to which she is not carried by the irresistible impulse of genius.

  Mary was disturbed. What exactly had Fordyce meant? Surely he could not mean that a young lady could practise too much? It was as if he had aimed his words straight at her. She knew there was a vast chasm between what she wished to play and what she could play: her fingers, no matter how diligently she practised, did not run along the keyboard as nimbly as did those of other women. And her voice was not pretty. Though she practised singing as often as she was able, she knew she had not the same pleasing tones as other women. None of the Bennet sisters could sing, but that was cold comfort. None of the others wanted to sing. Only Mary did.

  And now here was Fordyce admonishing her for her application. That bolt shot uncomfortably close to home. She was so unsettled by the betrayal of a most well-loved and comforting book that she shut the volume violently, rousing her mother, who woke from her nap with a small shriek.

  ‘Mary!’ Mrs Bennet said. ‘Have some consideration for my nerves. You know I cannot stand sudden noises that sound as if your father were shooting pheasant in the kitchen.’ She settled herself again, straightening her shawl and her cap rather like a ruffled hen.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ Mary managed, though the words choked her. She slipped out of the parlour and stood for a moment in the dim hall. I am as bad as Mama, she thought. I have the fidgets and cannot sit still. The sense of disquiet deepened at the realization that all of her comforts – piano, sermons and learned essays – had become as ashes to her.

  Her father came out of his library and seemed startled to see her in the hall. He looked astonished at her – she wondered if her face told of her agitation.

  ‘Well, Mary,’ he said in greeting. ‘What meditations on the wickedness of men have you worked up for us today?’

  She stopped to consider the question seriously, though she was no fool and knew he asked it only to laugh at her. ‘Nothing yet, Papa,’ she said at length. ‘Perhaps, like Lydia, I should begin a thorough investigation of it myself.’

  He did laugh – but it was a startled, appreciative one, and Mary smiled back, somewhat shyly. She did not often make her father laugh, or at least, not as if he laughed with her.

  The parlour door opened and Mrs Bennet peered out, her cap askew. ‘For goodness’ sake, Mr Bennet! What do you mean by laughing in such a fashion?’

  ‘It was Mary, my dear. She has suddenly acquired a sense of humour.’

  ‘Nonsense. Mary?’

  ‘God wants us to laugh, I think,’ Mary said, already a little ashamed of her previous remarks. ‘It shows us that his creatures are happy and content, and so it cannot be deemed an unseemly thing.’

  Mrs Bennet looked between them, lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and disappeared back into the parlour. Mr Bennet raised a brow, then stumped off. Mary could hear him mutter, Back to normal, and they left her alone in the dim hall.

  THE SMALL VILLAGE of Meryton was still a place of quiet amusements for Kitty and Mary. They walked there almost every day. Once Mary had gone unwillingly with her sisters, but ever since her strange discomfiture she was happy to walk with Kitty down the familiar lanes. Thrown together by the absence of their sisters, they formed an alliance born of necessity. They could never be close in the way Kitty had been with Lydia, to be sure. The youngest two Bennet sisters had been thick as thieves from the time they were small children. Though the younger, always Lydia had led and Kitty followed. Mary sometimes thought of them as a single sister, LydiandKitty. Now with Lydia gone, Kitty had no one to confide in save Mary.

  Mary got used to Kitty’s conversation on their walks on those early summer days. Their bonnets shaded them from the summer sun, and grasses swept along their skirts. It was not that she listened too closely to her sister’s chatter – rather it rolled off her in the same way that a summer rain dripped off new leaves, barely noticeable.

  ‘Jane said that she would bring me to Bath and London this year, and I will go to all of the balls, for I am already out. Mama has said that I can have as many new ballgowns as I like, for Bingley is so amiable he will surely pay for them. I only want to wait to buy them in London, for Meryton’s dressmakers are nothing grand enough. I think a pink one and a yellow one to start, don’t you think? I would love to have white lace for I know I will look just like a bride and everyone will look at me! But I am not sure Mama will approve – she will say that cream is best, perhaps. But perhaps Jane will – she is so happy she will say yes to anything! And Mama will listen to anything Jane tells her. Can you keep a secret, Mary?’

  For a single moment Mary was startled into listening to her sister. Then she thought: whom could I tell, for you are the only one I have to talk to?

  ‘It is a solemn charge to keep a confidence,’ she assured her sister. Kitty grimaced in the way that she always did when Mary said something serious, and took a deep breath, as if to tell Mary her secret all at once.

  ‘I wrote to Lydia to tell her I would be in London and she wrote back and said that she would try to get Wickham to go there. And I am sure she has acquaintances that I would find most diverting, and she and Wickham would take me to private parties. I do so want to see Lydia, Mary. You are all right, and Jane and Lizzy being married are lovely, because they are so grand now and can pay for things, but I miss Lydia so much.’

  Mary stopped on the path, in the dappled sunlight beneath a tree hanging over the old stone wall. She looked at Kitty, who looked back at her, the sudden tears in her voice appearing on her cheeks.

  ‘You would do that?’ Mary said at last, her voice low, and all thought of appearing wise vanished as she took in the impropriety of Kitty’s confession. ‘You would throw over every appearance of respectability, the opportunity of being with Jane and having the benefit of her good guidance, in favour of paying a visit to our sister?’

  ‘La, Mary, you preach so.’ Now Kitty sounded shaken and defiant.

  ‘You know you mustn’t see Lydia, ever. She is lost, Kitty, lost to all goodness and respectable society.’

  ‘She knows you never loved her,’ Kitty cried. ‘You never cared for her, and only think of yourself.’

  Of course Mary had loved her sister. Only, she hadn’t liked her very much, and she knew that in her hesitation she had made that clear. Kitty’s expression took on shades of malice.

  ‘You of all people should not worry about Lydia’s connections, as they cannot affect any prospects you might have.’

  Mary grew warm and as a result she became speechless. It always happened in that way: she never could think of a response in time. All her sermons and essays could not help her when she argued with Kitty. ‘You would be wise not to think of Lydia’s connections except as a bad example, Kitty,’ she managed at length. ‘And don’t grimace so. A lady should have a meek and mild expression.’

  That made Kitty grimace even more. ‘I knew you wouldn’t understand. I should never have told you anything.’ Her tone became bitter. ‘Now I’m sure you will tell Mama and Papa and I will never be able to see Lydia.’

  ‘I gave my word, Kitty,’ Mary said, but she was suddenly unsure that it was the ri
ght thing to do. Fordyce spoke out against telling tales, to be sure, but if Kitty meant to visit Lydia on the sly, she did not think she should be silent about it. ‘But you shouldn’t see her, it’s not right.’

  ‘All right, all right, I won’t,’ Kitty said quickly. ‘Pray let us talk no more about it.’

  She continued down the path towards Meryton, and Mary followed in her wake, less and less sure about her promise. She knew better than to believe Kitty. Once she took to an idea, especially where Lydia was concerned, she held on to it. I promised not to tell Mama and Papa, Mary thought. But I didn’t promise not to tell Jane. It was not quite right to split hairs in this way, but Fordyce would no doubt see the necessity of it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  KITTY’S PREPARATIONS FOR her stay with Jane took on an air of frenzy. She packed, and packed again, picked a quarrel with her mother over what she should take with her, and sobbed with such passion over not being able to buy a new bonnet for her journey that Mr Bennet locked himself in his library, determined not to come out until Kitty had gone and the house was at peace.

  Mary sat out the fuss for the most part. She stayed out of the way in her favourite nook of the house, reading by the light in the large bow window that overlooked the best part of the small park. Although Fordyce had failed her in his support of her practice of music and singing – had he really meant that if one was not impelled by true genius one should not continue a well-regulated practice of improvement? – he and she were as one with regard to the improvement of the mind through reading.

  The ‘affection for knowledge’, of which Fordyce wrote, and of which Mary read with great satisfaction, prevented idleness and dissipation. Other young ladies might fill their time with parties and amusements, but she would read.

  Mary sat in comfortable self-praise that she was at that very moment earning Fordyce’s highest commendation by reading good books and thus avoiding dreaded amusement and idleness, unlike Kitty, who was going joyfully forward to indulge in dissipation as was likely to leave her weakened, sorrowful and brokenhearted. She would come home to Longbourn a shadow of her former robust self, and she and Mary could have many comfortable talks about restoring her health and wit.

  Then Mary became distracted by the view of the garden from her window seat. The diamond panes blurred the view and Mary occupied herself by looking out and finding where she could see clear spots in the glazing. She was suddenly shocked to see a familiar face outside the window, looking in. Mary dropped her book with an astonished cry.

  ‘Mr Collins!’ she exclaimed. He bowed and grimaced at the same time, giving a little sideways hop so as to give her a chance to view his self-deprecating expression. He mouthed something at her, though the glass was not thick. Mary lifted the hook and pushed open the window carefully – the frame tended to stick if one was not careful.

  ‘Mr Collins,’ she said again. ‘Do forgive me – why have you come to the back of the house?’

  ‘My dear cousin Mary,’ he said, grimacing and bowing again. Mary bit her lip. ‘Do forgive the intrusion, as I see that you are most diligently at your studies. Is that Fordyce’s Sermons that I see? For a lady, certainly admirable, admirable. I am glad to see you are not spending time with unsuitable novels. As Lady Catherine de Bourgh always says—’

  ‘Mary!’ It was Mrs Bennet, come running round the side of the house. ‘Mr Collins is here, but we cannot find him – Oh, Mr Collins,’ she said, breathing hard and holding her hand to the side of her gown. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’

  Where Mary’s question had been simply one of surprise, Mrs Bennet’s had a tinge of accusation about it.

  ‘Mrs Bennet,’ Mr Collins said, and he bowed and grimaced again. It wasn’t quite a grimace but rather an attempt at a smile, Mary thought. ‘I hope you forgive the intrusion. As I was explaining to Miss Bennet, I knocked on the front door but there was no answer; all your servants must be quite busy. I thought it would be no harm to come round to the back of the house and see for myself if anyone was at home. This garden is lovely and your little park befits your standing in society. I believe that grand vistas are inappropriately showy when they are flaunted by the truly humble. Yet a small park can have such proper form and function as is needful when it suits its owners’ true position. It will do quite nicely.’

  Having thoroughly insulted Mrs Bennet and simultaneously reminded her of the odious fact that he was to inherit Longbourn, Mr Collins bowed again.

  Mrs Bennet swelled in indignation but a sudden dolorous lamentation from Kitty broke her concentration.

  ‘Mama, this trunk is too small! Nothing fits and I shall have nothing to wear in London!’

  Mrs Bennet took a deep breath and regained her temper in the same moment.

  ‘Please forgive us for not being more hospitable, Mr Collins, but you have come at a very busy time. We are sending Kitty to visit her sister, Mrs Bingley, and there is much to do. However, you are welcome, and please do come round to the front of the house and we will let you in properly.’ She looked at Mary and said sharply, ‘Shut the window, Mary, you will let in the damp.’ She then made an insistent face at her daughter, but Mary only frowned in puzzlement. Mrs Bennet made the face again and then Mary understood what her mother mouthed at her behind Mr Collins’s back. Make him leave.

  It took all of Mary’s strength of will not to grimace back. Making Mr Collins leave was an impossible task, as he saw fit to visit them as frequently as fortnightly and to stay several days or more. To be sure he divided his time between Longbourn and Lucas Lodge, but he seemed to feel less compelled to spend time with his in-laws than he did to visit his future estate. It was almost as though he did not like to leave it in the hands of Mr Bennet where he had found it, now that he was settled with a wife and infant son.

  Mary watched her mother and Mr Collins walk round to the front of the house. She heard Kitty cry out again. ‘I cannot find my rose-sprigged muslin!’

  Mary sighed, closed the window and went off to see about tea.

  ONCE SHE HAD quite liked Mr Collins and thought that she could encourage herself to fall in love with him. He was serious, he was as studious as she, and he was as given to moralizing. A little flutter – her nerves, she supposed – had overtaken her when she met him on his first visit. She had thought, At last, a man for me. The type of man whom I would suit very well. Mary knew that men liked beauty first, but this man, this Mr Collins, was different. He spoke well, he read sermons, and he made of everything a little comment. She found herself at that first family dinner thinking of her best aphorisms and sayings in order to catch his attention. He would see that she was serious and a thinker, not like her younger sisters who giggled disgracefully every time he spoke.

  Yet as she came to know her cousin, Mary started to realize several things. First, he never heard a word she said. He listened to Mr Bennet and Mrs Bennet and responded to them, but after the second or third time she spoke, he would merely look about and continue with whatever thought he was pursuing at the moment. Second, he never really looked at her – her conversation might have been coming out of thin air. He looked at Jane though. With little grimaces and winks and a ducking of his head, he made it clear that he saw Jane.

  Mary had never begrudged Jane her beauty or her goodness or the attention she drew from any one, men or women. Jane was all goodness – even pert Lizzy, whose tongue could make one smart, knew it, and she softened under Jane’s attentions. No, Mary knew that she could not match Jane for all those accomplishments a truly good person had. But she sometimes wished, though a little forlornly, that she could be the centre of so much attention with so little effort. And then had come Mr Collins! The man who, from the moment he walked into their house – his house – was clearly a match for Mary, was already half in love with Jane! Even the sober, dour, plain suitors, who should have known better, had known that Jane was marked for a grander sort of marriage than they could offer, even they could not see beyond her beauty to look about them fo
r a better match.

  And then. To discover that Mr Collins had transferred his attentions to Lizzy! That was an idea so ludicrous on the face of it that it was hard not to repeat ‘Mr Collins and Lizzy!’ in increasing tones of astonishment; that there seemed never to have been a thought for Mary was another unpleasant surprise.

  When Mr Collins married Charlotte Lucas, Mary thought that she could at last understand her mother’s nerves. To her it was as if someone had walloped her in the stomach.

  She knew she had not loved him; far from it. Mary was a Bennet, and she was not the stupidest one. That prize belonged to Lydia at present, though Kitty seemed likely to make a bid for it. No, Mary quickly discovered that Mr Collins was ridiculous and unsuitable for any one, even a one such as she. But was she so unnoticed and so preposterous a marriage prospect that even Charlotte Lucas was a better match? As far as Mary knew, Charlotte never opened a book and her conversation centered on the doings at Meryton and her brothers and sisters, with never a thought about the wider world. What kind of rector’s wife would she be?

  He should have at least looked at me, she thought, as she sat in the drawing room with the tea, waiting for her mother and Mr Collins. He should have heard what I had to say. Why would he not listen?

  A conversation caught her attention as her father met Mr Collins with a rumbling greeting. Before they all entered, with Mrs Bennet fluttering behind them, chattering about all the preparations for Kitty, Mary had one last small indulgence in self-pity.