The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  Mary closed the book, elated. She had found what she wanted. In Dr. Fordyce’s words, she heard Mrs. Bennet’s vision of the world entirely rejected, whilst her own passions were thoroughly and completely vindicated. For the first time since the ball, her despondency lifted a little. Through her bedroom window, the garden sparkled with the first frost of winter. A pale sun shone in a sharp blue sky. Mary saw none of this, indifferent to everything but her new sense of purpose. She pulled a sheet of paper from her drawer and began to transcribe those passages from Dr. Fordyce which she had found particularly satisfying. She had been right to think that study was the answer. Study, hard work, and Dr. Fordyce would keep her from going wrong again.

  For weeks, Mary worked tirelessly in the library, making notes on everything she read, covering page after page in her neat handwriting. Once she had exhausted Dr. Fordyce, she moved on to other writers of whom he approved; and from them, she was handed on, via footnote and reference, to yet more of similiar inclination. There was rarely anyone in the library except herself and her father; but he never enquired what she was doing. His indifference was nothing new; but now that she felt herself embarked on something of real importance, it began to provoke her. She longed to know what he would think of the task she had set herself. He was a reading man, the only Bennet, besides herself, with an appetite for scholarly works. If anyone was to understand the urgency of her desire to find a rational way to live, surely it would be him.

  She put down her pen and stared into the still library air, imagining how it would be if that were to happen. She saw herself explaining her plans to him, calmly and steadily, with none of the flustered self-consciousness that usually afflicted her in his presence. He listened, neither mocking nor belittling her. And as she spoke, she grew gradually more confident, blooming in the warmth of his approval. A bridge had been crossed, a bond formed between them—they had become partners in a shared endeavour. From then on, the library was no longer silent, but was full of lively conversation, as father and daughter shared their ideas. Mr. Bennet asked for her opinions of writers she had read, and suggested names of those she had not. Slowly but steadily, Mary was invited, not only into the private world of her father’s intellectual domain, but also into his affections, both of them places where, until now, only Lizzy had been admitted.

  Far away in the depths of the house, a door slammed, a servant called out, and Mary was shaken abruptly from her daydream. Back in the real world, her father’s expression, as he turned a page of his book, was as sardonic as ever, and just as unreachable. Only in her dream would Mary have the courage to approach him directly. Attempting it here—in the library, face-to-face—no, she could not do it. She would not know how to begin. She saw herself retreating in confusion under the power of his merciless smile. And yet, she could not resign herself to giving up. The dream in which he became her intellectual confidant was too seductive to abandon. If she could not trust herself to speak to her father, she must find some other way of making her ambitions known to him.

  The answer finally occurred to her one morning as she walked into Meryton. She had not wanted to leave the library, but Mrs. Hill had harried her until she agreed to put on her coat and go out into the fresh air. She went alone, dawdling along the quiet lanes, her thoughts directionless. It was not until she was at the outskirts of the village that she was struck by a thought that was both exciting and terrible—what if she were to see John Sparrow there? She stopped and stood motionless amongst the nettles, considering. If their paths crossed—if he saw her—perhaps he would ask how she did—she would reply—he would speak again—and somehow, perhaps, she might get out an apology, an explanation for what had happened—and then he would—But no, she told herself, this was foolish. This was precisely the kind of silliness in which she had resolved not to indulge. It would not do. If they were to meet, all she could expect was a curt raising of his hat as he walked on. He would not stop to talk.

  Her eyes filled with tears. Perhaps she should turn back? But that would prove she was even more fainthearted than she had already shown herself to be. She wiped her face and pulled up her collar against the cold. She would go into Meryton—but not for one moment whilst she was there would she allow herself to think of John Sparrow.

  She walked bravely down the single street, looking neither to the left nor the right; but when she came to its end, she had no further idea what she was to do there, for she had left Longbourn without any object in mind beyond her arrival. She supposed she might look at the shops; that was what her sisters would do, but the haberdasher’s where Kitty and Lydia spent their allowances was of no interest to her. Instead, she headed to the stationer’s.

  Staring through the shop window, she looked longingly at the thick cream paper, fine sharp pencils, and perfumed sealing waxes. Beautiful writing things always made her mouth water, and these were particularly attractive. How satisfying it would be to have some useful occupation on hand for which they could be used. They would be the perfect materials to use in composing a little book, for example; the different coloured inks could be used very prettily to illustrate favourite sayings. As she regarded them hungrily, it occurred to her that such a book would be the perfect gift for her father, demonstrating to him not only the strength of her affection, but also the extent of her reading. She could choose extracts from her favourite authors, copying them onto its pages and presenting them in a way that was sure to intrigue and impress him. It would say what she could not, displaying the range and depth of her interests. Her work was sure to be a better advocate for her ambitions than anything she could say to him.

  She grew more and more excited as she thought about it. The intellectual challenge, deciding which passages to include, came first of course. But there would be a great deal of pleasure in making the little book as pleasing to the eye as it would be to the mind. She would buy the best book she could afford, with a soft leather cover and good quality paper for its blank pages. She would need a new set of pens, some coloured inks, and perhaps an ebony ruler; she had always wanted one of those. Her manner was positively jaunty as she entered the stationer’s shop to make her purchases, and her cheerfulness lasted all the way home, as she began to plan how the title page might look. It was only when she sat down at her desk that she realised she had left Meryton with no sighting at all of John Sparrow. She felt a sharp pang of regret; but before it could take hold, she stiffened her resolve. She opened the new book, took out her ruler, gathered her pens together, and began to write.

  Chapter 14

  Mary worked slowly, taking care to ensure everything was done to the very best of her abilities. There were times when she was impatient to know what Mr. Bennet would think of the little book; but she curbed her desire to make haste, for she had gradually understood the true significance of her task. She had long since ceased to think of it as a simple work of compilation. She knew now it was far more than that. It was a calling card inviting her father to recognise her for who she really was—a like-minded spirit, a daughter it would be easy to love, if only he could be persuaded to notice her. It was this conviction that kept her hard at work, day after day, hour after hour, decorating the margins and ornamenting each page number with coloured flourishes. She would spare nothing to make her book of extracts the most accomplished of its kind.

  One cold day, when unseasonal showers kept all but the bravest indoors, for once, Mary was not alone in the library. Whilst she sat at her table, her papers spread out around her, Elizabeth perched in the window seat, knees drawn up before her, a book in her hand. She knew the rules that governed visitors to Mr. Bennet’s library as well as anyone; and for much of the time, she was obediently silent. But every so often, a little chuckle of amusement escaped her—until finally, she could not help herself and laughed out loud. Mary looked up, shocked at such a breach of discipline, but Lizzy merely smiled, offering her father an apology that was anything but abject.

  “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to disturb
you.”

  Mr. Bennet took off his spectacles and gazed at Elizabeth with such warmth that Mary’s heart contracted. Perhaps, once he had read her extracts, he might look at her in the same way.

  “What are you reading, my dear, that pleases you so much?”

  “It’s Miss Burney’s Evelina. I’ve read it so often and yet it never fails to make me laugh.”

  Mr. Bennet put down his book.

  “And which parts of it do you find most amusing?”

  “The comic characters are very well done, but I think I enjoy those moments most where the humour is entirely unintended. Who wouldn’t smile at a hero who is not only single and strikingly handsome, but is also conveniently possessed of ten thousand pounds a year? And who could fail to be amused by a heroine wise enough to unite in her person outstanding beauty and a mind so superior that the hero is quite prepared to overlook the vulgarity of her birth?”

  She closed the book, her expression alive with pleasure.

  “I am only surprised it took them so long to realise they were destined for one another. I should have thought such a remarkable pair would have recognised their fate in ten pages at most. So yes, I laugh—but I must confess, I envy them their cheerful conclusion. If only real life were like that!”

  “That is just the kind of happy ending I should wish for you, Lizzy,” declared her father softly. “I would arrange it myself if it lay within my power.”

  “You need not fear for me, Papa,” she replied. “I am much more sensible than I look. I am quite prepared, I promise you, to settle for something—or perhaps I should say, someone—far more ordinary than Miss Burney’s hero.”

  It was painful for Mary to watch the intimacy between Elizabeth and their father, and know she was excluded from it. The affection that flowed so easily between them was exactly what she yearned to experience for herself. She stared down at the notes laid out in careful order on her table, at the books marked with slips of paper to remind her of passages she had enjoyed. That was the purpose of all this work. That was why she applied herself so tirelessly, day after day. All she wanted was to see Mr. Bennet look at her with even a hint of the tenderness which he now directed at Lizzy.

  But she must not let her mind run in that direction; it would only upset and distract her. She must concentrate on something less distressing. She watched as Lizzy took up her book again. It was a long time since Mary had read a novel. It did not surprise her that Mrs. Bennet enjoyed them; but she found it hard to believe that Elizabeth, with her quick understanding, regarded such works so indulgently.

  “But, Lizzy,” she ventured, “if you think so little of these books, why do you continue to read them?”

  “You quite mistake my meaning,” replied Elizabeth. “These are loving criticisms on my part. For all the little faults in Evelina, I shall always be its firm friend.”

  “But aren’t you wasting time that might be better employed elsewhere? Dr. Fordyce says novels are very unsuitable for women to read; their morals often leave much to be desired, they have nothing of worth to tell us, and they convey no proper instruction.”

  Elizabeth sat up straight, serious now.

  “For me, that is one of their chief recommendations. I do not care to be told what to think at every turn of a page. And I do not agree that they have nothing to tell us. Is Charles Grandison to be thus dismissed? Tristram Shandy? Tom Jones? Works in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature is displayed? The greatest powers of the mind described? No, I cannot sit by and leave the novel undefended.”

  Mary searched through her notes, hunting for a favourite quotation. “Dr. Fordyce says books of history and philosophy are more useful for a female mind. They enhance our understanding, whilst novels only arouse our passions.”

  “I cannot see why a woman of sense shouldn’t enjoy both. I should consider it an insult to be denied the pleasures afforded me by Miss Burney because it might make me less receptive to those of Mr. Hume. Dr. Fordyce, however, I leave to you. I shall not compete for his company.”

  Mr. Bennet, who had been watching the conversation with interest, laughed out loud at this.

  “Well said, Lizzy! Well said, indeed! And you are quite right about Fordyce. Milk-and-water stuff. All cant and obsequiousness, not worthy of serious notice.”

  Mary looked down, unable to bear the affectionate smiles that passed between her father and sister. She knew Lizzy had routed her. But the humiliation of her defeat was as nothing to the pain she felt in hearing her favourite Dr. Fordyce spoken of by Mr. Bennet with such disdain. It had never occurred to her that her father would not share her appreciation for Dr. Fordyce’s ideas.

  Elizabeth slipped off the window seat, readying herself to leave. Generous in victory, she held out her book to her sister.

  “Shall I leave you my copy of Evelina, Mary? I think you might enjoy it if you would allow yourself to do so.”

  “I shall try it if you wish,” replied Mary in a low voice. When she did not reach up to take the book from her sister’s hand, Elizabeth laid it amongst the other volumes on the table, where Mary noticed it quite obscured her well-thumbed copy of Dr. Fordyce.

  Once Elizabeth had gone, Mr. Bennet turned back to his own reading, a very faint expression of pleasure just visible on his face. Mary sat thinking for a few minutes. When she spoke, her voice seemed very loud in the silent room.

  “Papa,” she ventured. “May I ask you a question?”

  Her father started up, as if surprised to find her still there.

  “Do you really think so meanly of Dr. Fordyce? I have been studying him for some time.”

  “I’m afraid those are unlikely to have been hours well spent. I consider him a tedious, unprofitable read; but you may have reached other conclusions.”

  “Can I ask your opinion of other books I have been looking into? Blair’s Sermons? Paley’s Evidences of Christianity? Hannah More on female education?”

  “Well, Paley is at least a proper thinker. I suppose you may derive some benefit from what he has to say. The others are quite worthless, unless you have a taste for arid morality and pompous sentiment of the most obvious kind.”

  Mary closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. She had clearly made a great error in judgement. How could she have been so foolish as to imagine Mr. Bennet would approve of the authors whose words she had been copying out so carefully and with such keen expectation?

  “If you don’t approve of the writers I have chosen, can you suggest any whom you value that you think I might enjoy?”

  “I’m not sure I should venture to do so. Your tastes seem very … strenuous for so young a girl. They don’t seem to tend much towards the light, bright, or cheerful.”

  “No, Papa, I don’t think they do. I wish to be informed, not entertained.”

  “Indeed? Well, the best advice I can give you is to follow your own instincts. They will be a far better guide than anything I can suggest. One way or another, they will direct you towards what you require.”

  He picked up his book again, and Mary knew she was dismissed. She gathered together her papers, closed the door of the library, and walked to her bedroom. She understood now that the book of extracts over which she had laboured with such care was quite useless. Mr. Bennet would find nothing in it to admire. Every writer she had included was regarded by him with contempt. Sitting at her writing desk, she turned the pages of the little book, looking at the entries she had made with such hope, that had cost her so many hours of ungrudged effort. A loving father would have been pleased with the gift regardless of its contents, because his child had taken the trouble to make it, but Mary knew Mr. Bennet would not be so indulgent. It would do nothing to raise her in his estimation. On the contrary, it would confirm his opinion of her silliness, of her unworthiness to be noticed, valued, or loved. It would certainly not persuade him to look at her as he did at Lizzy. Stone-faced, she opened the drawer of the dressing table, placed the book of extracts within it, and
slammed it shut.

  Chapter 15

  With no task to work upon, Mary found it difficult to fill the long hours that stretched before her each day. She read until her eyes ached, but she struggled to summon the enthusiasm that had once driven her excitedly onwards. She practised at the piano until her fingers grew stiff, and when they would no longer obey her, she went out, walking along the familiar path into Meryton. No-one offered to accompany her, and she did not seek out a companion. On her return, she was not asked where she had been or what she had done. At mealtimes, the conversation ebbed and flowed around the table, rarely requiring a response from her. She had nothing to add to Lydia’s and Kitty’s breathless reports of the comings and goings of their favourite officers, or to her mother’s confidential account of her sister Phillips’s new housemaid. She never again attempted to join in any of the conversations between Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth. Mostly she sat silent, paying little attention to what was being said. So at first, she barely noticed her mother’s announcement that the neighbouring house of Netherfield had been let at last. But Mrs. Bennet was so excited by the news, and returned to it so often that soon even Mary was aware that a young man of large fortune had arrived from the north of England in a chaise, taken one look at Netherfield, and agreed to terms on the spot. It appeared the new tenant’s name was Bingley and that he was single—although her mother was determined he should not remain in that state for long.