Unexpected Miss Bennet (9781101552780) Page 3

  It would have been fine if for once Mary Bennet had had the attention of even a most unsuitable suitor.

  Mr Bennet and Mary entertained Mr Collins in the drawing room while Mrs Bennet attended Kitty. At intervals they could hear from upstairs the sounds of much thumping and raised voices with occasional words, as mother and daughter enjoyed the kind of communication that is emphasized with many italics. Mr Collins pursed his lips as he sipped his tea, looking quite pleased that he could hold forth on the situation.

  ‘I have observed in my little parish of Hunsford that many young females of good birth are easily excited by the idea of company in town. I have mentioned it many times to Lady Catherine, that young ladies, unlike Miss de Bourgh, seem to have a certain sensibility that would be better suited, not to town, where their passions are raised unduly by late nights, rich foods, and heady attentions, but to the quiet country life, where their emotions can be soothed by regular company and fresh air. As I told Lady Catherine, Anne does not have that feverish attack of sensibility, but rather is more calm and rational than many other women. Don’t you agree, sir?’

  ‘I think, Mr Collins, that you overestimate the power of the quiet country life on girls. I have not noticed it to any great effect, and I think I have had the benefit of quantity to go by.’

  This, Mary thought, was where Mr Collins would nod at Mary and point out that she, at least, was a quiet country girl unaffected by the desires and whimsical delights of the wicked city. Or, even more likely, would he not bring up Charlotte?

  He would not. ‘Perhaps the natural inclinations of your daughters have been more powerful than those of most others of their sex. As for my patroness’s daughter, she seems to be more the type of female who finds dignity in quietness and patience. She would never dream of being so forward.’

  Mr Bennet said something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘Not with such a mother, she wouldn’t.’ He said it into his teacup and so the words were muffled, but Mary had to turn her own laugh into a cough. She had met Lady Catherine once and heard much more about her from Lizzy and even from Maria Lucas. She could put a picture together in her head. For the first time, she felt pity for the daughter. To have such a mother! Then she thought: Anne de Bourgh has suffered the oppressive effects of too much of a mother, while I have endured the permissive effect of not enough.

  Her father’s eyes twinkled at her over his teacup, and for a moment he and she exchanged a silent understanding. In the sudden silence, they heard Kitty cry, ‘It’s not fair! It will make me look like a child!’

  Mr Collins set down his cup hastily and stood, a blush coming over his complexion. ‘I will leave you then to your day, sir. I hope that your plans to send this daughter into company will not go awry as they did the last time. Lady Catherine has expressly mentioned that she will be seriously displeased if another Bennet makes such a scandalous alliance, and this time I could not hope to restrain her anger.’

  ‘Please tell your patroness that we would not dream of so disappointing her hopes,’ Mr Bennet assured him.

  ‘Thank you, sir. And if you wish to ask her for advice in raising the remainder of your daughters, I am sure that Lady Catherine will be happy to impart her wisdom to you, for she has most diligently raised the flower of nobility herself.’

  ‘To be sure,’ Mr Bennet said with great solemnity. ‘Upon awakening every morning I ask myself, “What would Lady Catherine do?”’

  With much bowing and grimacing and ducking, Mr Collins took his leave. They saw him out, and off he went to visit Lucas Lodge, where he had, no doubt, a vastly more welcoming audience, although, Mary thought, she had seen Sir William visibly gather himself when approached by his son-in-law.

  Mr Bennet closed the front door behind him and turned to Mary. ‘So what do you think, Mary? You know, he could have been yours, had you just been more nimble than Lizzy’s best friend.’

  She eyed him with great seriousness. ‘Would you have permitted it, Papa?’

  She expected a laugh; instead, in the dim hall, his face grew sombre.

  ‘I hope I would not have allowed it, daughter.’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead and stumped off to his study, leaving her to her astonishment.

  KITTY WAS OFF in a final flurry of activity, the small carriage whisking her away to her sister Jane with several ill-packed trunks. Longbourn fell silent under the cool freshness of early summer, and Mary ventured to walk out by herself. The path to Meryton led Mary through verdant fields, though there was mud underfoot. She picked her way carefully to avoid wetting her slippers but still her hem was often deep in mud. It felt very odd, not having any of her sisters with her. She was not used to walking into the little village by herself. Her mother did not walk. Mrs Bennet said the exercise exacerbated her nerves.

  MERYTON LOST ITS few charms when ventured into alone. Mary did not care overmuch for ribbons and bonnets, though the stationer’s was a favoured stop for paper and pens, and also carried books and ladies’ gazettes. After a few days of unhappy walking into town, Mary took to finding secret nooks in the fields and walks beyond Longbourn where she could read in the shade of trees and by the slow-running brook that ran into the pond by the house. Once, with great daring, she climbed the branch of an old tree that had a perfectly formed limb, just right for sitting, and she felt as if she were a child again. She tore her dress climbing down, though, and had to hide the tear from her mother until she could safely mend it in her bedroom at night.

  That was different too. For the first time, she had the room to herself. It was her things on the nightstand and in the dressing-table drawers; her belongings were strewn exactly where she wanted them. At first it was hard to sleep at night without another body next to her and the warm breath and night movements of her sisters to comfort her. Then she grew to like it.

  Perhaps Kitty will get married right away, she thought. Then I would never have to share a bed again! Unless I married . . . The thought made her uncomfortable and she shied away from it. To settle her thoughts, she lit the candle to read a bit more, until her eyes grew tired and sleep came. The first page she came to, opened at random, was Fordyce’s encouraging thought on marriage: Establish it betimes as a certain maxim, that to be married is neither the one nor the chief thing needful.

  Certainly Mary had not thought of marriage as her one true aim. It is not that she did not wish to marry, she thought. It just didn’t consume her every thought as it did those of her sisters and other girls she knew. Lydia, for one, had thought of nothing else but beaux, and look where it had led her, though Mary supposed that was because Lydia was easily led. When Mary thought of marriage, she often considered it as a state to be entered into rather by accident than by design, which she supposed was Fordyce’s point. Striving to catch a gentleman was ill-behaved, to be sure. But there was a difficulty, once again, with Fordyce’s opinion. If I do not marry, she thought, and I may not work, what will happen to me? Once again she grew cross with Fordyce. It was almost as if he didn’t really understand young women and their position after all. One could be good and kind and not care about worldly things, and accept that an earthly beauty turned to dust after but a few years of youth and joy, but the fact remained that this world required one to be more practical. When her father died she would have to leave Longbourn, with her mother or without her. Mary knew not where she would go. Neither, she thought pointedly, did Fordyce. He didn’t have all the answers. Happiness in the next world was indeed dependent upon forsaking the transient pleasures of this one; but still one had to eat and live.

  There – if she kept thinking dark thoughts she would never sleep. It had happened before, when the night brought unhappiness banished only by dawn. Mary closed the book and blew out the candle and prayed to let herself be easy. As comfort warmed her and she drowsed, she had a curious thought. Perhaps she should not rest all of her hopes on Fordyce. He had been a good guide, but a narrow one, and she had begun, if not to walk a different path, then at least to question the mapmak
er. I can still be good, she thought, sleepier now. But what price goodness if it comes too easily? Maybe she needed to put her goodness to the test.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JANE GREETED KITTY with an affectionate kiss.

  ‘How good it is to see you! Kitty, you’ve grown! Would you like to rest before we have tea?’

  Her sister untied her bonnet, bubbling over with excitement from her journey. She turned and turned in the hall, so much grander than shabby Longbourn. Though she had been to Jane’s on a few visits, this was the first time she’d made the journey alone.

  ‘Oh, I’m not tired at all. I am so glad to be here at last. Jane, I do so admire your house. So elegant. And it is so kind of you to have me! And Bingley too! Thank you so much! I can’t wait – I want to do everything at once! And when can we go to London? I do so want to go there. And Mama said to tell you that I will do anything you ask of me and be very good, but – would it be all right if I had one gown made while I am here? It would be terribly hard to go to all the fine places with unfashionable country clothes.’

  ‘Of course, Kitty,’ Jane said, but she felt a small niggling alarm. She would have to stand firm, and she so disliked disappointing anyone. This concern had made her very apprehensive of Kitty’s visit. She could not begrudge her little sister any thing, and she knew Bingley would be even more likely to shower Kitty with all the things her heart desired, for he wanted only to make his wife happy. It would be up to Jane herself to curb Kitty’s natural greediness. She almost wished Bingley were not so amiable in this matter.

  Unaware of her sister’s misgivings, Kitty chattered on as she let the servant take her bonnet and shawl and followed Jane into the parlour with a happy sigh and lightness of foot.

  ‘How are Mama and Papa? And Mary?’ Despite her effort to keep the question light, Jane could hear the significance she herself put into it. Kitty did not notice.

  ‘Oh, they are well, as can be expected. Papa reads, Mama fidgets – she was so amusing when she told me I could make this visit by myself! She said that it would be most enjoyable and she wished she were sixteen again to be able to go to London with only her sister as chaperone!’

  Jane winced. She took her duties more seriously than her Aunt Philips would have done; she could only imagine the mischief her mother could have got into under so light a hand. She took a sip of tea. ‘And . . . Mary? Still playing the piano and reading sermons?’

  Kitty responded with an airy wave but then frowned. ‘Oh, but you know, she hasn’t played the piano much at all. No, I don’t believe she has.’ She brightened. ‘She had better keep it up, because who will play for us at Lucas Lodge, I can’t think! Did you know – at the last assembly a young man went up to Mary and asked her to dance! I laughed like anything and Maria Lucas had to tell him that Mary doesn’t dance because no one else will play the piano!’

  Jane composed her thoughts, her heart sinking. ‘I see. And what did Mary tell the young man?’

  Kitty shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Oh, what a pretty brooch you are wearing, Jane. Is it a gift from Bingley?’

  So Kitty thought nothing of her sister’s plight. Well then, Jane thought, as she gave in to Kitty’s teasing and let her put on the brooch. She watched her little sister admire herself in a small mirror, turning this way and that to make the brooch sparkle in the sunlight coming in from the large window. It was not a moment too soon to do something about Mary.

  AS KITTY CHATTERED on and she and Jane enjoyed each other’s company, Lizzy was writing to her parents, asking them to allow Mary to come and visit her and Darcy at Pemberley.

  ‘What do you think of this, Mr Bennet?’ Mrs Bennet asked her husband, peering over his shoulder as he read Lizzy’s letter. ‘Asking Mary to come and visit Pemberley when she has scarcely ever asked me to visit! I must say, I wonder what she is about! What can she possibly mean by asking Mary to visit Pemberley!’

  Mr Bennet, after his short and rather odd conversation with his daughter regarding Mr Collins, began to have an inkling. He scanned the letter’s contents again, his brow wrinkling over his daughter’s precise handwriting. He kept back a smile out of consideration for his wife’s feelings.

  ‘I think it would be a fine thing for Mary to go and visit her sister, my dear. And look, Lizzy writes that when we come to fetch her we can all be together as a family at Christmastide. Kitty will come with Jane and Bingley and we will all celebrate at Pemberley.’

  Neither mentioned Lydia and her husband, Mr Wickham, though their presence could be felt in the pause that followed this remark. After a moment Mrs Bennet went on, hardly mollified. ‘Yes, of course, that will be very well. But Mary! Lizzy knows she doesn’t like company. What will she do with herself in that grand house? I know that she will make Darcy tired of her long words and talking of things that matter to no one. And then Lizzy will never be able to have any one of us visit her, for Darcy will put his foot down. And oh, if Lizzy takes her to town! What will Mary do in town, I wonder? Mr Bennet, you must write to Lizzy at once and tell her Mary does not want to visit her. Oh, what are things coming to? My poor nerves. Just thinking about Kitty going away and now we have to think about Mary too? How will we pack for her? I am thoroughly exhausted by my efforts with Kitty.’

  Mr Bennet simply nodded and let her continue on, as he read the letter once more, then tucked it into his pocket. Mrs Bennet soon took herself off, still bewailing of all these sudden comings and goings of her daughters and the trouble it gave, while he went to find Mary.

  He found her crossing the fields from Meryton, hurrying a little, for the sky was greying and a menacing low cloud came down behind her. The wind had whipped up and the weather had turned chilly. Mary was too far away for him to see her clearly; as he stood in the doorway looking out at the sudden change in weather, she picked up her skirts and ran. She arrived over the threshold inside just as a scattering of drops drove in behind her.

  ‘Quick, Papa!’ she cried as she hurried inside, and he closed the door behind her just as a gust of wind and rain followed.

  The weather was cut off but Mr Bennet remained astonished. Mary was laughing. The exercise had brought colour to her cheeks and her lips, usually pale from staying indoors. Her dark hair had loosened from its prim knot and her bonnet had fallen askew. Still laughing, Mary unknotted it. She used a slightly damp handkerchief to clean the raindrops from her face.

  ‘The wind was most uncommon today,’ she said, shaking out her skirts. ‘I thought it was almost playful at first, with the clouds scudding along like ships at sea, but once the sun was obscured, I knew I had to hurry. I almost got drenched.’

  As if to emphasize her words, a gust of rain spattered on the door.

  ‘Well, come along, come along,’ he said gruffly. ‘Call for tea and change into dry clothes and then come to see me in my library – no need to take cold on account of a romantic fancy about the wind.’

  She bobbed and gave him a smile and continued up the stairs with a light step quite unlike her usual measured tread. Mr Bennet rubbed his ear and continued to his sanctuary. He was settled at his desk with a book, waiting for his daughter, when it occurred to him that he had never seen Mary look quite so lively before. She had always been a dark, prim little thing, even as a child, her temper easily roused and her first expression a scowl, not a smile; her first reaction to disapprove.

  This Mary looked almost mischievous.

  A knock came at his door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called. Mary came in, her hair smoothed back and her dress shaken out and hastily towelled dry. She wore a shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘Well, Mary,’ Mr Bennet said gruffly. ‘Your sister Lizzy has written and wants you to come to visit her at Pemberley. You would stay the summer, and go to town with her, and at Christmas we would come to fetch you and celebrate the season with her and Darcy. Tell me, you and Lizzy have never been close – would you go to her out of a desire to increase your sisterly bond or would you go because of a desire to be
in the orbit of Darcy’s wealth and influence?’

  Mary thought for a moment. To be sure, she was intimidated by Darcy, but she also liked him – he conversed with her gravely and heard her opinions. She thought that even if he didn’t agree with her, he would still hear what she had to say. And Lizzy – it wasn’t that she didn’t like her sister. But sometimes it was very tiring to be in company with Lizzy, who could have a sharp tongue and liked to make fun of everyone. Mary wondered sometimes why Lizzy could say the most shocking things, but when she observed some facet of human nature, everyone chorused, ‘Oh Mary.’

  She had been to Pemberley once before, and was astonished by the grandeur of the estate. She had remarked to Lizzy that one could not consider it a home, but rather a responsibility to live up to, and to her amazement, Lizzy had sighed and nodded.

  She’s lonely and wants her family. It was an astonishing thought, but it carried with it a kind of sense. Jane had her own household, and Kitty now was off to visit her. Even Lizzy’s best friend Charlotte had a new baby to care for.

  ‘I would like to go, Papa, for the first reason, and not the second, though I think Darcy is a fine kind of person and he and Bingley are my brothers now so I must like them. But I think you are right – Lizzy needs her family and I would like to go.’ Another thought struck her. ‘If you and Mama can spare me, of course.’

  Her father laughed. ‘I can, my dear, though you have become surprising to me in the last few weeks. I cannot imagine what changes a few months under the influence of your sister can bring. As for your mother, she can spare you though she will tell you she cannot – that is jealousy, so pay it no attention.’

  Before Mary could ask him what he meant, he stood up. ‘Then it is decided. You will go to visit your sister, and we will all be together again at Christmas. And we will see if being surrounded by ten thousand a year will turn your head as easily it has done everyone else’s in this family.’