The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  Mr. Ryder looked thoughtful. “Perhaps. I am not so sure. You are probably right that I could do it. It is rather a question of whether I wish to.”

  “If that is the case, then you are sadly condemned to stay as you are,” observed Mary a little tartly, “for where there is no willingness to make an effort, there is usually little likelihood of success.”

  Mr. Ryder raised his hand and called for tea.

  “I can see you don’t approve,” he said. “But in my defence, I must explain this is not simply laziness on my part. I believe I am perfectly capable of exertion in pursuit of those things I love. But I cannot share that attitude which deliberately seeks fulfilment in what is dull and tedious, that plodding perseverance where effort takes the place of pleasure, which embraces what is dry and lifeless as a kind of virtue in itself.”

  “It is always easier to concentrate upon what pleases us,” said Mary. “It requires very little discipline to turn our minds to what we know we enjoy.”

  “You say that as if attending to what we like was a failing,” declared Mr. Ryder. “I see it very differently. I am determined not to waste my energy on anything that does not either move or please me; I won’t crush my spirit by weighing it down with boredom and obligation.”

  “You are fortunate to find yourself in circumstances which permit you to make such a choice.”

  “I don’t deny it,” he agreed, “and I very much intend to make the best of my good luck.”

  A waiter took away the dirty glasses and swept their table clean.

  “I sense that I have not convinced you of the justice of my argument.”

  “Not entirely, Mr. Ryder.”

  “Then before we leave, I wonder if I might be permitted to tell you a story, which I hope explains a little why I feel as I do?”

  Mary agreed to stay a little longer. Whilst she could not approve of Mr. Ryder’s principles, she enjoyed the way he talked about them. When he smiled at her, she was suddenly aware, both of the fineness of his profile and the embarrassment of having noticed it. This, she supposed, was exactly the situation Mrs. Gardiner had warned her against. She must ensure she did not allow herself to be captivated by his charm. She did not believe herself in danger, but it was as well to take care.

  Mr. Ryder, oblivious to this little inward struggle, settled himself comfortably at his side of the table, and began to speak in a tone of far greater seriousness than was usual with him.

  “My father,” he began, “inherited a small estate in Sussex, but it was not of much interest to him. He was a scholarly man, and he devoted all his time to the study of every kind of curious insect. His particular passion was a certain variety of winged beetle—I cannot now recall its Latin name, but it occupied most of his waking hours. He was forever engaged in catching examples of it, killing and displaying them. It seemed a dogged sort of passion, but he was utterly absorbed by it. He rarely emerged from his study and we children hardly saw him. Then he died, quite suddenly, as I recall. I was fifteen years old.”

  The tea arrived, and Mary poured it out. When she had finished, Mr. Ryder continued.

  “On the day he was buried, when everyone else was drinking wine in the drawing room and looking sad, I wandered into his library. There I found three of our servants, all dressed in black as I was, carrying away every one of the drawers which contained his beetles—there must have been twenty or thirty of them, each with row after row of insects, pinned out to show the patterns on their wings. The men were very respectful as they took them off. I don’t know where they went. I’ve never seen them since. I imagine my mother wanted them gone.”

  He took a sip of his tea.

  “After they’d finished, I sat for a while in that gloomy room, looking at the spaces where the drawers had been. Then I opened the doors that led onto the terrace and ran through them towards the garden. The sun was so dazzling, I was blinded by it for a moment. The day was bright and hot. I stood amongst the trees and flowers and breathed in the fresh green air. I felt the warmth on my back. I smelt the scent of the grass that had just been cut. And I looked back at the dark room I’d just left, and I thought what a sad waste my father’s life had been. All those hours of tedious study—all that effort—and to what end? All gone in a moment.”

  “I am very sorry to hear it,” said Mary quietly.

  “I was sorry too,” continued Mr. Ryder, “but not for very long. I walked around the garden again—I took off my black coat—I threw myself down on the grass and looked up at the sky—and I thought that in that moment I understood more about the point of human existence than my father had learnt in a lifetime of study. Years of hard work had never delivered him the sublime pleasure I was enjoying at that very instant. I had opened myself to the pure sensations of the world, where he had spent a lifetime denying them.”

  The waiter returned, and Mr. Ryder asked for the bill. Upon its being presented, he paid it absently, with a tip large enough to send the man away very satisfied; then he took up his story again.

  “The experience made a very powerful impression upon me; and when I was old enough to make my own decisions about how I should live, I promised myself I would not be deceived as my father had been. Life is too short, Miss Bennet, not to pursue those things which we know will please and fulfil us. And for me, that means indulging our senses as much as exercising our minds. We are often told that sensual pleasures do not last—but I saw for myself that is equally true for the products of hard work. Everything turns to dust in the end. In a philosophical sense, the servants are always waiting to take away our insect collections and dispose of them who knows where. We may as well experience some joy before they arrive.”

  Mary was not sure at first how to respond. She understood Mr. Ryder had confided something of great importance about himself to her and she could not help but be flattered by his trust. But much as she wished to respect the sincerity of his story, she could not agree with the conclusions he had drawn from it.

  “I understand your argument,” she said. “But some might say what you describe is merely a justification for selfishness. Sometimes we are obliged to do things we do not enjoy for the benefit of the people around us.”

  “I see that,” replied Mr. Ryder. “But I don’t believe that doing what pleases us would necessarily put an end to goodness. There are those for whom sacrifice is a pleasure in itself. It is only when we make it into a duty that it becomes tedious.”

  Mary thought this unlikely; but she contented herself with a vague, dissenting smile and waited a moment before she continued.

  “It is very sad to think of your father’s collections broken up and taken away.”

  “Yes,” he replied, “I was very affected by it.”

  “I see that for you they seemed the very image of futility,” Mary continued. “But can you be certain your father did not derive a great deal of pleasure from assembling them? They may have been his chosen form of enjoyment. We know so little of what others truly feel.”

  “He did not give the impression they brought him much joy,” said Mr. Ryder. “If they did, then I can only say it is not the kind of pleasure I wish for myself—no, I want something far more exhilarating. And as for not knowing what others truly feel—I have said before, Miss Bennet, that not speaking the truth about our emotions is one of the great miseries of our age. We would all be happier if we were more honest with each other—I believe that most fervently and attempt to practise it whenever I can. Indeed, I intend to do so now.”

  Before she knew quite what was happening, Mr. Ryder reached out and took her gloved hand, holding it firmly between his own.

  “Our conversation has made me very happy, Miss Bennet.”

  “Perhaps because you did most of the talking.”

  “You will be missed when you leave for the Lakes. London will seem quite empty without you.”

  “I’m sure you won’t want for company, sir. You always seem to have people about you.”

  “Perhaps; but you
r loss will always be felt.”

  Mary pulled her hand away. Mr. Ryder relinquished it, not in the least disconcerted. Excusing herself with a polite farewell—she must go back and help Mrs. Gardiner—she would not wait for him to accompany her—he need not take the trouble—she hurried off, as quickly as she could. It was only when she had walked for some minutes down the street that she allowed herself to look over her shoulder. She was not entirely displeased to see him standing outside the shop, still watching her, before he too turned and went away.

  Chapter 69

  The journey from Gracechurch Street to the Bingleys’ house, where the Gardiners’ little party was to break their journey, was achieved without difficulty or incident. Mary grew steadily more silent as they neared their destination. In the days immediately before their departure, her mind had been so crowded with visions of the Lakes and what they should do and see there, that she had given no proper thought to the days they were to spend with the Bingleys. It was only when they were on the road that she began to reflect upon what their stay might be like. She did her utmost not to surrender to the apprehension that had begun to scratch away at her confidence. Really, what had she to fear? Caroline Bingley would not be there to tease her. She would have the Gardiners about her, their kindness still there to be relied upon. Mr. Bingley was always cheerful and good-natured; and it would be pleasant to see Jane’s beautiful face again. As the coach ploughed on northwards, she allowed herself to think of meeting her sister and her brother-in-law again with something like pleasure. But they were not the only relations into whose company she would be plunged on arrival: her mother would be there too.

  When they pulled up at last outside the Bingleys’ house, Jane was waiting there to meet them. The little Gardiners clambered stiffly out of the coach, and were soon running about, laughing and shouting after their long confinement. It was some minutes before they were finally recaptured and led happily away, with promises of hot toast and a basket of young kittens to admire. The older people followed more soberly but no less gratefully towards the prospect of tea and a seat that did not jolt them about. Mr. Bingley presided over all the arrangements with his usual affability; and in less than half an hour, everyone was happy.

  Once enough had been eaten and drunk for conversation to be more general, Mr. Gardiner observed that Mrs. Bennet was not yet to be seen; he hoped his sister’s nerves were not troubling her again? Mr. Bingley smiled into his tea whilst Jane replied evenly that, no, her mother was not seriously indisposed; she was merely conserving her strength for dinner and looked forward to meeting everyone a little later. There was a short silence whilst this news was absorbed; at the end of it, both men appeared to conclude they had now paid their debt to politeness. They rose together and left to inspect a plantation of new trees, on whose state Mr. Bingley wanted very much to hear Mr. Gardiner’s opinion.

  Once they had gone, Jane cast a mild, assessing eye in Mary’s direction.

  “I must say, Mary, you look very smart in that dress. I don’t think I have seen it before.”

  Mary had almost forgotten that she had acquired a wardrobe of new clothes since she had last seen her sister. It was a strange thing; now that she was so much better dressed, she rarely gave much thought to her looks at all. She no longer stared at her reflection, looking for new reasons to disparage herself. Indeed, she rarely looked in the mirror at all, but this was not because she despised what she saw there. It was rather because she was broadly satisfied with herself; or, as content with her appearance as she suspected was the case with most women who will never be beauties. Freed from a regimen of criticism and complaint, Mary had found her own level; and she was not unhappy to be there. Jane’s unfeigned praise pleased her; and she returned her sister’s smile.

  “I’m glad you like it. Mrs. Gardiner persuaded me to buy it.”

  “That was very wise of her,” replied Jane. “It is exactly right for you.”

  “In my opinion, Mary has really bloomed in the last few months,” observed Mrs. Gardiner proudly. “I only hope her improvement will be appreciated by everyone who sees it. And what of you Jane,” she continued. “How are you going on?”

  Jane looked up, a little self-conscious but very proud.

  “Well, I have reason to believe—that is I think—I am pretty much certain that I’m expecting a child.”

  She smiled shyly at her aunt and Mary as if she had told them the greatest news they could ever wish to hear. Mrs. Gardiner jumped up and kissed her lightly.

  “My dear, I’m so very happy for you—and for Mr. Bingley too—what a wonderful thing for you both!”

  Once Mary would have searched for an aphorism or an extract from one of her favourite writers to do justice to the announcement. Now she understood that was not what Jane wanted to hear. Instead she found the courage to say simply what she felt.

  “I am delighted for you, Jane. No child could hope for a better mother. I wish you both joy, truly I do.”

  Jane blushed, suddenly overcome.

  “It’s all I’ve ever really wanted, a happy home, a loving husband, and a baby. I’m not sure why I’ve been so fortunate, but I hope, Mary, that one day something similar will happen for you.”

  Mary’s heart was too full for a reply. She could not remember when Jane had spoken to her with such affection.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Gardiner with feeling. “I hope so too. There is no more lasting satisfaction than knowing you have chosen the right partner in life.”

  Later, upstairs in her bedroom, Mary dressed for dinner with as much care as if she was about to meet a roomful of critical strangers. As Jane’s maid put the finishing touches to her hair, Mary attempted to steady her nerves. It had been arranged as she now preferred it, with no attempt at a curl; and she had chosen an equally plain dress, a pale yellow, with a dull gold stripe and a few green ornaments. Once the servant left the room, Mary sat before the mirror for some time, turning this way and that, trying to imagine what her mother would say. She told herself she was foolish, after so many years, to expect anything in the way of encouragement from that quarter; but for all her determination not to do so, she still yearned for her mother’s approval. A kind word, an assenting nod, would be enough. Even the absence of a frown would suffice. She picked up her shawl. The moment could not be postponed. She looked at her hair one last time and made her way downstairs.

  When Mary entered the drawing room, she found herself alone. Why was she always the first? She thought ruefully of Caroline Bingley’s arrival at Mr. Ryder’s supper party, and the stir her carefully timed entrance had created. She knew she would never possess the confidence to be late; anxious, uncertain guests like herself were doomed always to be early, to provide a waiting audience of admirers for those too assured or too fashionable to pay any heed to the time.

  To keep herself in countenance, she walked around the room, admiring the beautiful objects her sister had arranged so tastefully: the elegant china, the delicate glass. She ran her hand over an embroidered chair cushion—she had no doubt Jane had sewn it herself—and inspected the painting of her sister which hung over the fireplace, presiding over the room with her characteristic remote and gentle gaze. She was so absorbed that the sound of the drawing room door closing quite startled her.

  “Well, Mary,” observed Mrs. Bennet evenly, as she made her way towards the sofa. “Here you are at last.”

  She held her cheek out to be kissed. As Mary bent towards her, she saw that her mother had not changed at all. A few grey hairs perhaps, but nothing more. Touches of black on the neck of her dress and round her sleeves were all that remained of her mourning clothes. She no longer looked like a widow.

  “I’m very glad to see you, Mama. I trust you are in good health?”

  “Dr. Gower who attends us here says I am very well. But I’m afraid he does not fully appreciate how I suffer.”

  She plumped one of Jane’s embroidered cushions and settled herself comfortably.

 
“But Jane and Mr. Bingley seem very attentive?”

  “Jane is an angel, of course. And Mr. Bingley does what he can. But neither of them has the first idea how to run a household properly—Mr. Bennet always said they would be taken advantage of by everyone, their natures are so trusting—and I’m afraid he was right. I’ve offered to take things in hand—but they won’t have it. My advice is ignored, as always.”

  “Perhaps they’re afraid you might exert yourself too much. I’m sure they have your interests at heart.”

  “Perhaps.” Mrs. Bennet’s expression suggested there was much that might be said on this subject if she chose to do so. Instead she merely pursed her lips. “Now, let me look at you properly.”

  It was the moment Mary had dreaded. Knowing there was no escape, that she was about to be judged as she had been so many times before, she did her best to breathe evenly and not to drop her eyes. It seemed an age before Mrs. Bennet spoke.

  “Mrs. Gardiner wrote to say you were much improved. I see she was right.’”

  Mary allowed herself a small smile. Her mother, still examining her, did not return it.

  “That dress shows off your figure and the colour suits you. It’s good to see you stand up straight at last, and not hang your head. I should like to see your hair curled, but it is better done than it was. Altogether, there is a bloom about you that was not there before.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “You will never be a great beauty like Jane”—Mrs. Bennet glanced reverently at the portrait above the fireplace—“but if you go on as you are, you may become quite passable.”

  Mary was almost angry with herself at the strength of the emotions her mother’s words provoked. She knew that to those accustomed to more generous compliments they would seem like very little, but to her, they were praise indeed. To be accounted merely passable was a great improvement upon being dismissed as plain; and it meant all the more because Mary knew it must be true. Her mother did not care for her enough to take the trouble to dissemble.