At Longbourn, with the Collinses, she had seen how want of esteem was fatal to a marriage, how it soured goodwill, chilled relations between husband and wife, and snuffed out all sympathy. She had watched it freeze Charlotte Collins’s feelings, even as it plunged her husband into an unhappiness he struggled either to comprehend or escape. But that was not the first time she had witnessed the corrosive effects of contempt in that house. She understood now very clearly how it had poisoned the marriage of her own parents. Mr. Bennet’s studied detachment, the ironic scornfulness of his teasing, the bitter amusement he took in the failings of others, especially his wife and daughters—all those cruel jibes flowed from the frustrated knowledge that he had married a woman he could never think of as his equal. Lizzy had once told her, with tears in her eyes, how their father had admitted the truth of this to her, on the day she had sought his permission to marry Mr. Darcy. “Let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life.” It was not until this moment that Mary fully understood and felt for herself the significance of his bleak admonition.
She reached out for a pen and paper, pulled both towards her, and began to write.
* * *
The next morning, when she came down to breakfast, a letter with her name upon it sat bold and unmissable on her plate. She swallowed hard; she knew what it was. She had sent her message to Mr. Ryder last night, had it carried to his apartments by a willing servant for a few shillings and a bottle of beer. She had written because she did not feel equipped for the strain of another interview and hoped that, in a carefully composed note, she stood a better chance of conveying both the strength of her regard and the finality of her refusal.
She picked up the letter and slipped it into her pocket, hoping that as she was the only person at the table, it had not been noticed. But just as she thought she was safe, her mother came into the room. She sat down quite calmly and poured herself some tea.
“Good morning, Mary. I was here a moment ago, and I saw you had a letter. May I trouble you to know who it was from? Did it come from Mr. Ryder, by any chance?”
“Yes, Mama, it did.”
“I imagine it is in reply to a letter you have already sent him. Which presumably contained your answer to his proposal?”
Mary picked up the teapot with as much steadiness as she could muster. Now that she had made her decision, she must not waver under her mother’s angry stare.
“I am astonished you did not show it to me before you sent it. Am I permitted to know what you told him?”
“I thanked him for the honour he did me in asking, but I explained that I could not marry him because I did not love him. I hoped we might continue to carry on as friends, if he wished to do so, and added I was sure he would have no trouble in finding very soon a lady who would be delighted to be his wife.”
Mrs. Bennet sat very still. From down the hall, one of the Gardiner boys was heard calling to his brother.
“Prettily written, but then you always were a dab hand with a pen. Although I must tell you it is without doubt the most ridiculous and harmful piece of work you have ever produced.”
Mary steeled herself to keep her composure. She would not be intimidated by her mother’s disdain.
“I made no secret of what I intended to write.”
“You did not attend to any of my objections.”
“I listened to what you said with the greatest attention, but I am persuaded I have done the right thing.”
“I always knew you to be a stubborn, contrary girl, but I did not think you a fool.”
Mrs. Bennet poured herself a little more tea. Her hand, Mary saw, did not shake at all.
“You have thrown away your last and best chance of a comfortable settlement. I have no idea how you plan to live. I suppose you must fling yourself upon the charity of your sisters, for I cannot help you. What you intend to do with yourself for the rest of your life I can’t imagine.”
She reached for a piece of bread.
“Nothing to say, miss? Well, perhaps you are right to stay silent. You have made your bed and must lie on it. I did everything a mother could to help you—no-one could have done more—but my efforts were not wanted. I shall go back to Jane immediately. Perhaps there my advice may still have some value.”
“I am sorry, Mama, if I have angered you.”
“I am beyond anger, Mary. I wash my hands of you.”
Chapter 92
Mary kept her countenance pretty well over the next few days, during which the house was turned upside down by the preparations for Mrs. Bennet’s hasty departure. She did not crumple when her mother climbed into her carriage, her whole person stiff with affront, refusing to make so much as a farewell nod to her disobedient daughter as she drove away. Later, Mary was still tolerably in control of herself when she finally plucked up the courage to read Mr. Ryder’s letter. It was a gentlemanly epistle, containing neither recrimination nor offence. Only one line in it caused her a moment’s pause. Had you taken me as I am, I have no doubt I should eventually have become the man I ought to be. For that, I am sorry. She bit her lip at that; but there was no point in torturing herself anew. She had made her choice, taken her gamble, and now she must live with the consequences.
It was not until life returned to its regular rhythm that she really began to suffer. Whilst there had been crisis and urgency and drama, she had sustained herself tolerably well; but now there was nothing but the everyday and the ordinary to greet her when she woke. Her spirits plummeted. She could not work, could not settle to her books. She had no energy to read to the children. She had consigned herself to an existence whose main, whose only purpose was waiting; and that, she discovered, ate away at her until she could barely force herself to leave her room. At night she did not sleep but stared into the darkness, when doubts and fears crowded in upon her. Her mother was right. She was a stupid fool. She had lost the one man who would have made her truly happy. There was no reason to think he would appear now. And she had rejected his friend, who might have rescued her from a future she had feared for as long as she could remember. She would become that most despised of creatures, an old maid; and this was how it would feel, on and on and on, forever, until she was too old or too sad to care.
As she walked past Mary’s door on her way to bed, Mrs. Gardiner often heard her crying. She stood outside, wondering if she should go in; but what comfort could she offer? She asked her husband whether she should write again to Mrs. Hayward or try to discover where Tom Hayward was walking; Mr. Gardiner thought not. It was a very difficult business all around. When the law courts opened again in the autumn, Tom must return to his work, then perhaps Mr. Gardiner might try to speak to him; but now it was best not to interfere. No good would come of it. The young people must be left to resolve it for themselves.
* * *
At first, her aunt was relieved when Mary was not to be found in tears quite so often; but soon she was not sure whether her dry-eyed misery was much to be preferred. In the absence of any other useful tasks with which to occupy her time, Mrs. Gardiner encouraged Mary to take as much exercise as possible. Walking, she thought, must be good for her; or at least could do no harm; and each morning she urged Mary to take an airing, in the hope that she might return a little less miserable. Mary did not protest—what else had she to do?—and it was on one of these aimless walks that she felt someone fall into step beside her. Looking around, she was astonished to discover her new companion was none other than Caroline Bingley—the very last person likely to be found striding so confidently along such an unfashionable City street.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet. I have been looking for you. Your aunt was kind enough to suggest where I might find you, since you were not at home when I called.”
Her careful politeness gave no hint of the hostility of their previous encounters, but Mary was not deceived into thinking her appearance boded well.
“If I had known you planned to visit us, I would have ensured I was there to
receive you.”
“But then I would have missed the pleasure of walking through such a very interesting district,” replied Miss Bingley sweetly. “It is not a part of town with which I am at all familiar. It positively bustles, does it not?”
Mary’s heart was racing, and she knew she must show no sign of weakness or hesitation in Miss Bingley’s presence. She gathered up all her courage and smiled back at her with equal insincerity.
“Since you have found me, I am at your disposal. Should you like to come back to Gracechurch Street, where we could have some tea?”
“Well, that would be charming,” declared Miss Bingley, her tone implying that it would be nothing of the kind, “but the children seemed in a particularly boisterous mood this morning. The ambiance wasn’t entirely conducive to the quiet conversation I had hoped to have with you.”
She touched the collar of her perfectly cut jacket, as if to brush away any specks of City dirt which had had the temerity to attach themselves to it.
“I passed a respectable-looking pastry shop a few steps back. It appears they have private rooms upstairs for ladies. I suggest we take ourselves there instead.”
They walked in silence to the very shop where Mary had been taken by Mr. Ryder in what now seemed a lifetime ago. Miss Bingley swept into its precincts, commanded the best table on the first floor, and ordered China tea, sliced lemon, and a plate of macaroons.
“It is not exactly Gunter’s—one could hardly expect that, so far from the West End—but I think it will serve our purposes,” murmured Miss Bingley, dismissing the waiter and pouring out the tea herself. Mary had decided to say nothing until she had some idea of Miss Bingley’s intention in bringing her there. She did not have long to wait.
“I don’t think there is anything to be gained in making idle conversation, Miss Bennet, so I will come to the point directly.”
She wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin.
“I understand that Mr. Ryder came to visit you not long ago. I should be grateful to know what he spoke of whilst he was there.”
Mary looked up, nonplussed. She had not expected such a direct approach. She was surprised to find her apprehension falling away, replaced by resentment that Miss Bingley should see fit to question her in such a manner.
“It was a private matter. It seems odd you should ask about it.”
Miss Bingley inclined her head, as if to indicate that although she had heard the displeasure in Mary’s voice, she did not choose to acknowledge it.
“He mentioned to me that he saw you.”
“Then you should ask him about what was said.”
“But I am asking you.”
“I’m not sure with what aim.”
“Was there a declaration of some kind?”
At this, Mary finally awoke from the miserable lethargy which had engulfed her so long. Who was this woman to interrogate her in this way? What right did she have to demand answers from her? All the humiliation and misery of the last months suddenly turned into a kind of rage. She would not be treated like this. She had had enough and would no longer bear it.
“That is an extraordinary question. I cannot imagine why you think you have the right to ask it.”
“That was the impression Mr. Ryder gave me.”
“I am amazed he felt able to discuss our conversation with one whom it did not concern. Did he volunteer this information freely? Or did you demand it of him?”
Mary was pleased to see Miss Bingley’s composure waver a little.
“I saw he was upset. When I asked why, he seemed happy enough to tell me. He is not a man who hides his feelings from himself or others. He implied you had not given him reason to hope.”
“If you have had that from him, I do not see why you require anything further from me.”
“Because I wish to understand from you directly if it is true. Or whether it is just a ploy to whet his interest, to make him even more eager to have you. After all, that was a ruse that worked very well for your sister. Darcy never wanted her more than when she was clever enough to refuse him!”
Mary was really angry now but determined not to show it. Miss Bingley should not have the satisfaction of knowing she had provoked her.
“That is as ignorant as it is insulting,” she replied deliberately. “Elizabeth would never trifle knowingly with the affections of a decent man. No more would I.”
Miss Bingley leant across the table, her face taut with bitterness.
“Yes, you Bennets all talk a fine game, but in practice, you’re as hard-headed as the most consummate husband-hunters. You have a remarkable record of reeling in the men you want, and then looking around as if it was all an amazing accident, nothing to do with you at all, just love finding a way! I’ve seen it happen twice, in front of my eyes, so please don’t play the innocent with me.”
“As I do not love Mr. Ryder, it would make no sense for me to marry him.”
Miss Bingley laughed out loud.
“Oh, come, Miss Bennet, we are not children! When you think of the alternative, marrying a man one does not love may be the most rational decision a woman can make. Do not pretend you haven’t considered it. Especially now that Ryder is to be so rich. I cannot believe you were unaffected by that piece of news.”
For the first time, Mary was genuinely surprised by Miss Bingley’s words. To give herself something to do whilst she marshalled her thoughts, she took the napkin off her lap, folded it carefully, and placed it on her plate.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Please don’t treat me as a fool.”
“I do not know what you are talking about. If you will not enlighten me, I do not see how we can continue this conversation.”
Mary held Miss Bingley’s gaze, determined not to be the one who looked away. In the end, it was Miss Bingley who flinched, accepting that she would learn no more of Mary’s true intentions without disclosing what she knew.
She had had the story from Mr. Ryder himself. He told her that shortly before their trip to the Lakes, he had been called to Kent, to attend Lady Catherine de Bourgh at Rosings. There he had found his relative so beside herself with fury and frustration that it had taken some time for him to understand the cause of her anger. A whole day passed before the terrible truth was revealed to him in all its horror and shame—her ladyship’s daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, was engaged to be married—to her doctor. “You might think such a thing impossible, Mr. Ryder—it should be impossible—if there were any gratitude and obedience in this world, it must be impossible—but I regret to tell you that it is not.” The affair, it appeared, had been going on under Lady Catherine’s unseeing eyes for some time—“for years, Mr. Ryder, years!”—the silent couple concealing their affections until Miss de Bourgh reached her majority. “Think of the deceit. The flouting of my authority!” Now that she was twenty-one, however, Miss de Bourgh was free to contract a marriage with whomsoever she chose, however distressing her intentions were to her mother. “This is how I am repaid for a lifetime’s care and trouble. This is how I am defied and humiliated.”
Lady Catherine now demanded that Mr. Ryder seek to achieve what her own efforts had failed to do, and bring her daughter to her senses. He doubted very much whether his endeavours would have any more success than her ladyship’s; and he was quickly proved right. His attempts to make Miss de Bourgh consider, if not her own position, then what she owed to her mother, fell on very stoney ground indeed. It was quickly evident that she had no sympathy at all for a parent who she considered had always bullied and belittled her; and that she could not wait to begin a new life at as great a distance away from her as possible. It was an additional blow to Lady Catherine to discover, so late in their dealings with each other, that her daughter’s will was quite as strong as her own, and not to be deflected by either threat or inducement.
When it was certain Mr. Ryder could do no good, there was nothing left for the beleaguered Lady Catherine to do but apply to her nephew for hi
s help. Only in such pressing circumstances was she reluctantly prepared to acknowledge Mr. Darcy’s position as the titular head of the family. But when the Darcys arrived at Rosings, she began to regret the decision to invite them. Neither her nephew nor his wife seemed inclined to pursue the matter with the harshness she thought appropriate. Mrs. Darcy she suspected of harbouring some sympathy for her daughter’s situation, having come upon them more than once closeted in conversations she could not but regard as disloyal; and she did not doubt Mrs. Darcy’s opinions were reflected in her husband’s ultimate conclusions as to the best way to proceed. Having interviewed the doctor, Mr. Darcy declared himself satisfied that he was no fortune hunter, but a respectable man with a genuine affection for Miss de Bourgh. That lady was as determined to marry him as he was to marry her; and it was therefore difficult and probably unprofitable to imagine how or even why they should be prevented from doing so.
Miss Bingley took a sip of her tea. Mary sat in silence until she was ready to continue.
Mr. Darcy, it appeared, had advised Lady Catherine to reconcile herself, with what good grace she could muster, to a union that was likely to take place, whatever she thought of it; and to do what she could to salvage some fond feelings in her daughter by not appearing vindictive. Lady Catherine paid not the slightest attention to this latter advice; but she was finally persuaded to agree to the marriage itself, once Miss de Bourgh made it clear she was quite prepared to elope with her doctor if her mother refused to countenance more usual arrangements.
The Other Bennet Sister Page 50
