The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  “When the others are back, and we sit down at table, I do not want there to be any confusion about where each of us will be placed.”

  “I am sorry, Mama, but I’m not sure I understand you.”

  “Really, Mary, I think you do. Lord knows your conversation this morning was forward enough. It does you no favours to be so missish now.”

  Ashamed, Mary hung her head.

  “Well, let me make myself understood. Mr. Collins will be seated next to Lizzy. There will be no attempt to swap seats.”

  “Of course. I would never put myself forward in that way…”

  “I am very pleased to hear it. I will have no interference with my plans.”

  When the family assembled, Mary found herself at the furthest possible distance from Mr. Collins. It was impossible for them to have any conversation together. From her end of the table, she watched Elizabeth do all she could to deflect his attentions whilst remaining within the bounds of politeness. Mary looked on with frustrated incomprehension. How could Mrs. Bennet refuse to understand that Elizabeth would never have him? Why, indeed, did Mr. Collins not see that himself? Instead, he battled on, quite blind to Lizzy’s ill-concealed distaste. It was many minutes before he drew himself reluctantly away from Elizabeth and addressed her mother instead.

  “I was delighted to be introduced to some gentlemen of my fair cousins’ acquaintance this morning.”

  “Indeed, sir?” replied Mrs. Bennet, signalling to the servant to offer Mr. Collins another leg of chicken. “Whom did you meet?”

  “We came upon two of the officers,” interrupted Lydia, delighted at the opportunity to talk upon her favourite topic. “Mr. Denny and another quite new one, just this minute arrived. He was not even in his red coat yet, although he said he has his commission.”

  “His name is Mr. Wickham,” added Kitty, helping herself to more peas. “And whilst we were talking to them, Mr. Bingley arrived, together with his friend, the tall, proud man who never speaks.”

  “That would be Mr. Darcy,” explained Mrs. Bennet to Mr. Collins, “a very disagreeable man.”

  “Really, ma’am!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “It cannot be fair to prejudice Mr. Collins against him to such a degree. We barely know the gentleman.”

  Mrs. Bennet was unmoved.

  “What we have seen of him is hardly to his credit. His haughtiness gave universal offence at the last assembly. I am sure no-one has a good word to say for him.”

  “‘Judge not lest ye be judged in your turn,’” ventured Mary. “That is what Scripture enjoins upon us.” She looked towards Mr. Collins to see if he would approve.

  “My cousin is right, of course,” he replied, favouring her with a bland smile. “But society, as well as Scripture, has its claims upon us all. No-one of us can afford to ignore what is owed to politeness.”

  He tried to catch Elizabeth’s eye, but she occupied herself resolutely with her chicken.

  “I thought Mr. Wickham seemed rather taken by Lizzy,” suggested Lydia with a grin. Elizabeth turned back to the table, her expression outraged.

  “What can you mean, Lydia! Really, you are quite ridiculous!”

  “He spoke to you far more than to any of us. And you didn’t appear to mind it.”

  “That is quite enough,” declared Mrs. Bennet sharply, with a sideways glance at Mr. Collins. “Lydia always takes these little jokes too far.”

  The rest of the meal proceeded in a distinctly subdued fashion. Lizzy was embarrassed, Mr. Collins piqued, and Mrs. Bennet angry. As soon as the table was cleared, Elizabeth escaped to her room whilst Mrs. Bennet pursued Lydia into the garden, where she could be scolded away from view. Mary wandered aimlessly towards the drawing room, where she sat at the piano and began to play. Soon she was quite lost in the music. A few minutes later, she saw Mr. Collins come in, but she continued with her playing until all the piece’s loose ends had been satisfactorily tied up and its complexities resolved.

  When she turned to face him, he was smiling with what looked like genuine pleasure. “My congratulations, cousin. You play with great exactness. I imagine you practise a great deal to achieve such precision?”

  Mary admitted this was so.

  “I commend you for it. It is only through hard work that anything of value is to be achieved.”

  “I am very pleased you enjoyed it.”

  “I have often remarked to Lady Catherine that her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, would no doubt have been an excellent musician if her health had permitted her to learn an instrument. The weakness of her constitution unquestionably deprived us of a musician of the very greatest accomplishment.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I would be happy to play for you again, if you wish.”

  “Sadly, I must deny myself that pleasure, as I am engaged to your mother, who is to show me the disposition of her backstairs linen cupboards. Lady Catherine has condescended to suggest some improvements in that line might not go amiss in my humble parsonage, so I am keen to avail myself of Mrs. Bennet’s expert knowledge whilst I may.”

  He stood up, making his accustomed bow.

  “But I must thank you for allowing me to listen to you. It filled an empty moment most pleasurably.”

  After his departure, Mary sat at the keyboard, reflecting. Although he had refused her offer to continue, Mr. Collins seemed to have enjoyed hearing her play. Indeed, he had never before appeared so animated in her presence. She stroked the keys noiselessly as she considered the implications of this. Perhaps it was music and not reading that would best attract his attention? She struck a single chord which echoed round the empty room. If that was so—and the more she considered it, the more she was persuaded she was right—then she must do all in her power to show off her skills at the piano to their very best advantage, so that he could not help but notice both them and herself.

  She was still wondering how this might be achieved when the door burst open and Kitty rushed in. “We’ve just heard the best possible news,” she gasped, her hat awry. “We’ve run in to tell everyone.”

  “Yes, yes,” cried Lydia, following fast behind her. “There’s going to be a ball! At Netherfield! And it’s fixed for a week today.” She paused to catch her breath. “Mr. Bingley came in person to invite us. He met Lizzy and Jane in the garden. We saw him just before he went away. What news, eh?”

  “He’s asked us all,” cried Kitty. “Even Mr. Collins. Mama will be so excited.”

  “Did Mr. Bingley not think it proper to come in and ask our mother himself?” asked Mary.

  “He was with his sisters, and they had not the time,” said Kitty.

  “That doesn’t seem very polite.”

  “Really, Mary!” Lydia exclaimed. “What does it matter who asked whom? Anyway, I’m sure it was his dreadful sisters who declined to come in. They make it quite clear they think we’re beneath them—all those simpering smiles to Jane and nasty little sniggers to each other—don’t imagine I haven’t seen them—but I don’t care! He has behaved admirably. He said he should hold a ball and he has been true to his word.”

  “Shall you go, Mary?” asked Kitty.

  Mary picked up her music, turning the question over in her mind. If Mr. Collins was to be there, and if she was serious in her attempts to arouse his interest, she was clearly obliged to attend. The dance could be as much an opportunity for her as it was for any of her sisters.

  “I think I might. I can work in the morning, and I think it right occasionally to join in evening entertainments. Society has its claims upon us all, and I think some moments of recreation and amusement are desirable for everyone.”

  Lydia burst into laughter.

  “You sound exactly like Mr. Collins! You were clearly meant for each other. What a pity it is that he has eyes only for Lizzy!”

  At dinner that night, all conversation was directed to the coming ball. Mrs. Bennet was consumed with anticipation. She had convinced herself the ball was intended entirely as a compliment to Jane and, brushing
away her daughter’s embarrassment, began to debate how quickly it would be followed by an offer from Mr. Bingley. Her husband paid no attention to his wife’s speculations, but to the surprise of his family, announced that he too would attend. Since Bingley had done him the honour to ask him, he should go and drink his wine and eat his supper and be as content as a sensible man could be in such a situation.

  Elizabeth did not usually address Mr. Collins more than was required by the demands of politeness; but now, allowing goodwill to triumph over dislike, she unbent sufficiently to ask her cousin if, as a clergyman, he thought it proper to accept his invitation and join in the evening’s amusements. He gave his answer very determinedly.

  “I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you, that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening.”

  Lydia suppressed a giggle. Mrs. Bennet glared at her, as Kitty, Jane, and Lizzy stared away, in any direction but his. Only Mary steeled herself to gaze at him expectantly. But Mr. Collins turned, as she had suspected he would, towards Lizzy.

  “I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the first dance especially.”

  Elizabeth looked stricken, but was forced to agree. Mr. Collins made no similar offer to Mary, which merely confirmed the conclusion she had arrived at earlier. If she was to make any impression at all upon him, it must be through her skill at the piano. Her looks could not help her, and he had barely acknowledged her studiousness, although she had done her utmost to parade it before him. Music was the last remaining lure by which he might be persuaded to notice her; and the Netherfield ball offered the perfect opportunity to display the full extent of her talent. There she would perform with such brilliance that neither he nor anyone else would be able to ignore her. She sat back in her chair, pleased to have a plan. She would arrange to have extra instruction from her music teacher to ensure her playing was at its very best. This was too important a moment to leave anything to chance.

  Chapter 25

  Miss Allen, Mary’s piano instructress, was thin, grave, and silent, a woman who had perfected the art of self-effacement to such a degree that when she was not at Longbourn, Mary found it hard to recall exactly what Miss Allen looked like or how old she might be. She was the unmarried daughter of a curate, living in lodgings above the milliner’s shop, from which cramped and dingy rooms she strove night and day to preserve her precarious hold on gentility. It was Miss Allen’s fate that haunted Mary’s darkest hours, her sad and anxious face which sprang into her mind when she imagined what the future held if she did not marry. For that reason, Mary had called upon Miss Allen’s services rather less in recent months than before. But today, here she was, toiling up the Longbourn drive, her shabby cloth bag heavy with sheets of new music for Mary to consider. Together, they spent the morning studying them; and by midday, they had decided on three pieces. Mary would begin with a sonata by Haydn, intended to display her hard-won proficiency at the keyboard; go on with a few Scottish airs, designed to make her listeners smile; and finish with a selection from The Harmonious Blacksmith.

  “Your choices feel entirely right,” concluded Miss Allen, as she packed up her things and readied herself to walk the two miles to her next lesson. “The Haydn will impress everyone who hears it, and the airs will be very cheerful. Everyone will have the words to ‘Robin Adair’ in their heads.”

  Mary closed the piano lid. An idea had occurred to her earlier in the morning, and she wished to find out Miss Allen’s opinion of it.

  “I have been asking myself if I’m offering enough to the company by merely playing the song. I thought I might venture to sing it too. The effect would be very fine if I could manage both. What do you think?”

  Miss Allen buckled her bag and fussed with her gloves.

  “I’m not sure your vocal talents are as strong as your playing. If you wish to show yourself to the greatest advantage, I suggest you concentrate on what you do best and confine yourself to the keyboard.”

  Usually this would have been enough to quash Mary’s ambitions; but not today. She had set her mind on achieving something spectacular, and was not to be easily deterred.

  “Other ladies will play and sing.”

  “We cannot all excel equally at everything we do.” Miss Allen looked tired as she stood up to leave. “Miss Elizabeth’s abilities might be said to be the exact opposite of your own. Her voice is strong, but her playing lacks discipline. You, on the other hand, are an extremely competent player, but your voice is not your greatest asset.”

  “You are very candid, to be sure.”

  Miss Allen sighed.

  “I don’t think I would be serving you by telling you only what you wish to hear. Your playing will please everyone, but your singing is perhaps best enjoyed by your family alone. I mean it kindly and have no wish to offend you.”

  Mary assured Miss Allen that she did not take her words ill; but as she stood at the window, watching the music teacher make her way down the drive, Mary knew she would not follow her advice. She went back to the piano and placed a new sheet of music on the stand with a most determined air. For once she would not be told what to do, would not meekly accept that Elizabeth must always surpass her in everything she undertook. She would practise for three hours every morning until the day of the ball, exercising her voice until it matched the proficiency of her fingers. Hard work and dedication should supply what nature had not, making it impossible that Mr. Collins, and indeed everyone else, should not be amazed by the virtuosity of her performance.

  Chapter 26

  Mrs. Hill was delighted when Mary asked her to iron the gold-and-cream dress as she intended to wear it to the Netherfield ball.

  “I was afraid you were going to be stubborn and refuse it. This is exactly the right occasion to show yourself off.”

  The next few days passed in a flurry of practice and preparation. When the night of the ball finally arrived, Mary felt she was as ready as she would ever be. She had devoted every spare hour to the piano, rehearsing her pieces until she knew them so well that she could have played them in her sleep. She had been more circumspect with her singing, partly as she was afraid of tiring her voice; but also because she did not wish to reveal to her family her intention to sing as well as play. Miss Allen’s response to her suggestion had not been what she hoped to hear. She would not risk any further discouragement by announcing it to anyone else. The surprise would be all the greater when they heard her perform.

  The knowledge that she had made every possible effort, that no-one could have worked harder, soothed her nerves somewhat as Mrs. Hill helped her get ready. When she put on the dress, it too felt right. Turning this way and that in front of her mirror, she saw that its bright airiness still flattered her, that its simplicity worked well alongside the plain style in which Mrs. Hill had arranged her hair. Mary was satisfied. She would not provoke gasps of admiration, but she looked neatly put together. She took a final glance at her reflection—and as she did so, all unbidden, a memory flashed into her mind of John Sparrow smiling at her. It was a pang to the heart—but with a great strength of will, she suppressed it. It would not do. She breathed a little faster as she left her room and walked down the stairs, but she forced herself not to dwell upon it. She could not allow herself to become agitated. Nothing was to interfere with the serene state of mind her performance would require.

  When she arrived in the hall, she found her parents, Kitty, and Lydia waiting there, ready to leave. Mrs. Bennet’s temper had not been improved by standing about, and she relieved some of her anger by scolding Mary vigorously for her tardiness; but when, a few minutes later, neither Jane, Elizabeth, nor Mr. Collins had appeared, her patience was exhausted.

  “I shall be extremely vexed if Lady Lucas arrives before we do. Lydia, go up and ask them what they are
about!”

  “I’m sure they are busy beautifying themselves,” declared Mr. Bennet, “eager to look their best for any marriageable young men who might be found at tonight’s entertainment. I should have thought such close attention to their interests would have merited your entire approval, my dear.”

  “That might be pardonable in Jane,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “for she has Mr. Bingley to consider, but who has Lizzy to please?”

  “Perhaps Mr. Wickham?” suggested Lydia, with a look of mock innocence which provoked her mother still further.

  “If you knew how my nerves are troubling me at this very minute, Lydia, you would not say such things. And where, pray, is Mr. Collins?” she wailed. “I thought he, at least, had more consideration!”

  “He is no doubt hard-pressed to choose an outfit that will suggest both his high opinion of himself and his readiness to flatter his superiors at every possible opportunity,” observed Mr. Bennet smoothly. “It is a considerable requirement to ask of a coat and shirt. We may be here for quite some time.”

  Mrs. Bennet had no opportunity to reply, as, at that very moment, the three latecomers arrived together in the hall. Indeed, neither she nor any of the other Bennets were required to speak for quite some time, as Mr. Collins at once began upon a profuse apology and a lengthy account of a lost cravat, a soliloquy which, being so often repeated, occupied most of the journey to Netherfield.