“Don’t be silly. You won’t do any better, I can promise you that. You were prepared to take on Mr. Collins before that sharp little hussy Charlotte Lucas plucked him out of our grasp—and Mr. Ryder is a great deal better-looking, richer, and infinitely more agreeable than Mr. Collins. If you throw this opportunity away, who else do you think will have you?”
His friend, cried Mary to herself, I would willingly, joyfully take his friend. But Mr. Hayward had not written. Perhaps he would never write. It was possible that she would never see him again. Grief suddenly overwhelmed her. She could not control herself and fled out of the drawing room into the hall, where she passed a shocked Mrs. Gardiner, and up the stairs to her bedroom, where she covered her face with a pillow so that no-one should hear. There she cried and cried until she could cry no more.
It was half an hour before she mastered her feelings. She lay, dry-eyed, for a little time before she rose up and smoothed down her dress. Then she washed her face, combed her hair, and pinched her cheeks to give herself a little colour. When satisfied she was presentable, she made her way down towards the drawing room.
Before she could enter, she heard her aunt and her mother arguing within, their voices tight and angry. She stood, rooted to the spot, her hand grasping the bannister, unable to move, although she knew she should.
“I really do implore you to leave matters alone for a while,” urged Mrs. Gardiner. “I know you mean well; but when I see the unhappy state she’s reduced to, I fear any further interference risks doing more harm than good.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by ‘interference.’ It is the second time you have used the word. I cannot see it applies in a mother’s case.”
“She is not a child anymore,” exclaimed Mrs. Gardiner, “but a thoughtful young woman. A silly, flighty girl might need to be cajoled into doing the right thing, but Mary is far too steady to require coercion. She is quite capable of making her own choice.”
“I was not aware that there was a choice to make. It is this young man or nothing. And that, as we both know, amounts to no choice at all.”
Her aunt did not reply immediately. When she did speak, her voice was more conciliating.
“I believe there is another gentleman for whom Mary has a preference, a very decent, respectable man, a good friend of our family. He accompanied us to the Lakes, and whilst we were there, it seemed that a real affection was growing between him and Mary. I had great hopes for it.”
“Indeed? May I ask then, where he is? I have been in Gracechurch Street for ten days now and have not been introduced to him.”
“No,” admitted Mrs. Gardiner. “His absence is most unusual. Something went wrong in the Lakes, a misunderstanding or a quarrel of some kind. It is that, I believe, which is the cause of Mary’s unhappiness.”
Sensing triumph, Mrs. Bennet rose up to deliver her verdict.
“Well, if the gentleman is not here, I think that tells us all we need to know about the strength of his affection. Mr. Ryder, on the other hand, is both present and interested. There is such a thing, sister, as a bird in the hand.”
Mary had heard enough. She dreaded meeting her mother on the stairs, as she emerged victorious from the drawing room, and tried to think of somewhere to hide; but she feared that wherever she went in the house, Mrs. Bennet would seek her out, and continue to hector her there. She had no choice but to put on her outdoor things and venture out into the City again. When she was halfway down Gracechurch Street, she stopped for a moment, quite overcome. The London air was smokier than usual, and the coal dust stung her eyes. That must be why she felt tears on her cheeks once more. She brushed them away angrily and walked on, with no clear sense of either direction or purpose.
Chapter 88
The next morning, promptly at eleven o’clock, Mr. Ryder rang the bell. Mary was alone; her mother had gone to see Dr. Simmons, and her aunt had taken the children for their morning walk. Mr. Ryder looked pleased to discover this. He appeared smarter than ever, in a coat Mary had not seen before, his hair neatly brushed. He strolled into the drawing room with the greatest ease and, when invited to sit down, took up his position in what had become his accustomed chair.
“I have brought you some fresh magazines. Both the Edinburgh and the Quarterly have new editions out. I thought you would like them.”
Mary was so relieved to discuss a subject other than matrimony that she leapt upon the prospect of a rational conversation. Encouraged, Mr. Ryder exerted himself to be as sensible and discriminating as he could. At the end of a lively hour, in which their discussions ranged over subjects as varied as the history of the Ottoman Empire, a new translation of Dante, and the surprising advances made in the science of cooking ranges, both felt they had acquitted themselves creditably.
“It is a while since I have had the pleasure of speaking to you alone,” Mr. Ryder observed, closing the Edinburgh Review very decidedly, as if to indicate that their conversation would move into new territories. “I must say I have missed it.”
“Yes, my mother has been very much with us.”
She hesitated; then decided she would speak candidly.
“I’m sorry if her manner was a little trying—if her matchmaking intentions were very obvious. It is her way, I’m afraid. But I’m very sorry if you were at all embarrassed.”
Mr. Ryder laughed.
“Really, Miss Bennet, I am not a man who is much troubled by embarrassment. You must have observed that for yourself.”
“Indeed,” she replied, “it is not a quality I’ve often noticed in you.”
“But,” he continued, “your mother’s hints did have the effect of concentrating my thoughts.” He paused, then looked into her eyes with the greatest earnestness.
“I think you must have been aware, both when we were in the Lakes, and back here in London, how very much I relish your company—how very much, in fact, I admire you.”
Mary put down her copy of the Review carefully on the table, attempting to avoid his gaze. She very much hoped he was not about to say what she feared.
“My preference for you must have been quite plain. So I hope it will come as no surprise when I say I have developed the greatest affection for you.”
He looked at her encouragingly, a little self-conscious now, but not unpleased with himself.
“I have allowed myself to hope,” he added smoothly, “that my liking may perhaps be returned.”
He sat back a little, still looking at her intently, waiting for her answer.
“Your liking, sir, I do return. We have become very good friends.”
“But perhaps a little more than that? You seem to enjoy my visits—my company does not seem objectionable to you. And on Scafell—when we spoke alone—I felt a deeper connection between us. I believe you did too.”
Mary dropped her eyes. She had not imagined he would remember that.
“Yes, there was a moment when I was—when I took to heart the things you said.”
“You must understand,” he declared, excited now, “that I meant it all—about living a life freely chosen—about leaving behind all the dreary constraints that prevent us from being truly happy.”
“I understand you spoke sincerely.”
“I would do everything in my power to make that life real. For both of us. I don’t want the kind of existence that satisfies most men. I want something more than that. And I think you do too.”
“You have always made it very clear that an ordinary domestic life would not be enough for you.”
He drew his chair closer to her. She could feel his breath as he spoke.
“I have a mind to go abroad—to Italy, as I said before—somewhere with a lake in front of me and mountains behind. Come with me! We could read poetry all day and drink wine every evening. We should be very happy!”
Mary could hardly believe this was happening. For most of her life, she had considered it impossible that any man should speak to her in such terms, let alone one as handsome
as Mr. Ryder. She sat very still and looked around her. She supposed his words marked a great moment in their way. She should not die without hearing that someone wanted and desired her. Her world should have been turned upside down by such an experience; but in reality, everything looked just as it did the moment before he had spoken. The late summer sun poured through the drawing room windows, catching in its beams the London dust that could never be entirely eradicated, no matter how often the room was swept and the furniture polished.
The chintz on the sofa shone dully. The flowers on the sideboard were past their best and should really be changed. Everything was the same; and she herself was no more transformed than her surroundings. She could not deny that she was gratified to hear his words—or that they had provoked in her a brief thrill of—of—what? Was it relief? Was it satisfaction? But that had been all. She was not overwhelmed. She felt no transformative flood of feeling. Mr. Ryder was not the man from whom she yearned to hear a heartfelt declaration of love.
“You are very honest, Mr. Ryder, so I will attempt to be equally so in return. I’m very touched by the openness with which you’ve declared your feelings. But I fear I am not the right match for you. I like you very much—but I don’t love you—and it would not be right to pretend that I do.”
Mr. Ryder frowned, stood up, and walked to the window. His disappointment was evident as he stared down into the street, tinged perhaps with the merest hint of surprise. Mary imagined he was not often frustrated in achieving his wishes. It seemed a new experience for him, and not an agreeable one.
“In time, you might feel differently.”
“I don’t think so. And eventually, I fear I would bore you. I don’t have your lightness and levity. In the end, you would find me dull.”
“That would never happen. Never.” He turned from the window to face her. “I thought you had more courage.”
“I’m not really very brave, you know. And I don’t think the life you describe would make me happy, at least not for long.”
He returned to his chair and sat down with a sigh and an air of reluctant resignation.
“Then there’s not the slightest point in my raising the subject again?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m sorry if I’ve given you pain. I hope you’ll believe it was not my intention.”
She reached out her hand and touched his arm. He sat, crestfallen for a few minutes, during which both were silent. Then he stood up, with a rueful smile.
“I thank you for your candour. I said before that I was not much troubled by embarrassment. I did not expect to be tested in that respect quite so quickly or so powerfully. But I hope to be able to summon up enough self-possession to call upon you again soon.”
“I hope you will. I should be sorry to lose your friendship.”
Once he had gone, she went to the window and pushed it up. The breeze that wafted in could hardly be called sweet-smelling, but at least it was cool. She let it play over her face as she considered what had just happened. It was a little while before it struck her that it was not exactly what she had first thought. When she considered what Mr. Ryder had actually said, she realised that the word marriage had never crossed his lips. For a moment she was puzzled; what then had he meant? Then suddenly she understood—his offer had nothing to do with matrimony! She gasped as she remembered that in this very room he had assured Mrs. Gardiner he looked forward to a day when men and women came together freely, without the necessity of banns or vows. Is that what he had intended for her? That she should become his mistress? That he would “take her into keeping,” as Mr. Wickham had attempted to do with Lydia?
It was so incredible and unlikely an idea that she almost laughed. She supposed she should be insulted; outraged even; but somehow she could not summon up any anger. If he had suggested apartments in Mayfair and an allowance of £500 a year, she would indeed have been deeply offended. But she understood that what he wanted was not a discreet liaison of the irregular kind—the usual mercenary transaction where money was exchanged for reputation—but something very different. Had he received enough encouragement to elaborate on his offer, she knew how he would have described it—as a partnership of like-minded spirits, emancipated from tired old customs, living free and independent under sunny skies amongst poets and artists in a world where only the emotions mattered. He had not wished to insult her; no doubt he genuinely thought such an arrangement preferable to marriage. What would he have done if she had accepted? Would he have been shocked at her boldness? And what would her mother say when she discovered the nature of the offer Mr. Ryder had made her? There would be no more fond looks and encouraging smiles then. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Mrs. Bennet might prefer to see her daughter living in Italy in an ambiguous connection with a rich man rather than embarrassingly present around the house as the unmarried sister nobody had wanted. The more she thought of it, Mary wasn’t at all sure which possibility her mother would consider the most disappointing outcome.
Chapter 89
For all his assurances that he would soon return to Gracechurch Street, Mary had not expected to see Mr. Ryder for a while. Surely even his easy temper must have been a little lowered by her refusal? But only a single day elapsed before his arrival was again announced, and this time to a drawing room in which Mary sat accompanied by her mother and aunt. When he came in, Mary saw that his bearing was quite different from his usual demeanour; he was formal, even a little grave. He did not sit down, but stood before her mother and aunt, and asked if he might be allowed to speak to Mary alone.
Mrs. Bennet could not hide her excitement and leapt up eagerly from the sofa.
“Of course, just as you wish! Come, sister, let us leave the young people to themselves.”
Mrs. Gardiner, however, was not to be hurried away.
“I should like to know first if that is what Mary wishes. Do you want us to go, Mary?”
Mr. Ryder stared at Mary with a silent, beseeching appeal. She knew she could not refuse. It would be too cruel, too public a humiliation.
“Thank you, aunt. I am happy to speak to Mr. Ryder alone.”
Delighted, her mother beckoned to Mrs. Gardiner, who rose to join her without enthusiasm. Mrs. Bennet bustled over to Mary, and under a great show of embracing her, whispered loudly into her ear.
“This is the moment, Mary! He means to declare himself, I am sure of it!”
When the door closed, and Mrs. Gardiner could be heard ushering Mrs. Bennet away from the door and swiftly downstairs, Mr. Ryder unbent a little.
“I must begin by thanking you for your kindness in seeing me at all. Not many ladies would have been so generous after what I suggested yesterday. I am here, in part at least, to ask your forgiveness.”
“I have to admit, sir, that it was not until after you had gone that I understood exactly what your proposal implied. If I had grasped it at the time you made it, I might not have been so considerate in my reply.”
He had the grace to look uncomfortable.
“I am truly mortified. But I want you to understand that my intentions were not what they must have appeared. I did not have in mind something cheap and sordid. My head was full of ideals, not low, disreputable arrangements.”
“Yes, that was what I imagined. But I must tell you, Mr. Ryder, that for the woman in the case, I am not sure there is as much distance between the two as you like to think. The world in general will not make the distinction that you do.”
“I am afraid you are right. The gulf between the world as we would like it to be, and the world as it is remains as vast and unbridgeable as ever.” He attempted an apologetic smile. “I know I do not deserve your indulgence, but I hope I might beg it anyway? May we sit down and speak like rational people for a moment?”
Mary agreed—the earnestness of his request would have made it difficult to refuse—and settled herself once more on the sofa. Mr. Ryder stationed himself opposite her. It was obvious now that he had come to do more than deliver an apology.
“I shall not, as they say, beat about the bush,” he began, “but will go straight to it. I spent most of last night turning matters over in my mind. And I have concluded I shall do what I should have done yesterday, and make you an offer which cannot be misconstrued. I would be very honoured, Miss Bennet, if you would accept my hand in marriage.”
Mary could not conceal her surprise; and Mr. Ryder looked across at her sadly.
“Your astonishment does not do me much credit, I feel. But perhaps that is no more than I deserve.”
“I’m sorry—but I am—that is, I never imagined—that this was what you intended.”
“And now that you know, may I ask what you think?”
“I’m afraid my answer must be the same I made to you yesterday. I am very sensible of the honour you do me by asking, and for understanding that marriage—and not what you suggested before—is the only offer I could seriously consider accepting. But I do not love you, Mr. Ryder. And I cannot think it would be fair to either of us for me to accept you unless I did.”
He left his chair and moved to join her on the sofa. He began to speak in a serious, confiding tone Mary had not heard before.
“I knew you would say that. But I beg you to think again. We are good friends, are we not? And, I ask you, Miss Bennet, might not friendship be a firmer foundation for matrimony than love, which burns itself out in the end?”
Mary clasped her hands together. That was indeed what her books had told her. Dr. Fordyce had insisted upon it. She had thought herself prepared to marry Mr. Collins on exactly such terms. But now, called on to apply the theory to the most momentous decision she had yet made in her life, she found she could not do it.
“Yes, we do very well as friends. But as husband and wife—I’m not sure our tempers would ever agree.”
“You think me too frivolous? Not thoughtful enough for you?”
“That would be presumptuous of me. I do not mean to give myself airs I’m sure I don’t deserve. I only meant that our characters are so different, we should not find much common ground between us.”
The Other Bennet Sister Page 48
