The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  Lady Catherine laid down two conditions. The marriage should take place as privately as possible, with all who knew of it agreeing to say nothing about what had transpired. And the happy couple should immediately afterwards go abroad and stay there, on as prolonged a honeymoon as was possible. When these requests were agreed to, they were married, by private licence, in the drawing room at Rosings.

  “I believe,” observed Miss Bingley, “it was your old friend Mr. Collins who did the honours—he was always ready to do anything in his power to oblige her ladyship. And Mr. Darcy made all the arrangements, ensuring that—for the moment at least—it has attracted no public attention nor any breath of scandal. Rather as he did for your sister Lydia, as I recall?”

  Describing the misfortunes of others had quite restored Miss Bingley’s self-assurance, and she poured herself more tea with all the calmness in the world. Mr. Ryder, she continued, had attended the wedding, as had Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, although Lady Catherine had not lowered herself by doing so. She had been compelled to accept the fact of her daughter’s choice, but had resolved never to forgive her for it; and whilst Miss de Bourgh was exchanging her vows, her mother was consulting lawyers, determined to extract via the law the revenge she had not been able to elicit by any other means. By the time the new husband and wife were on board the boat to Calais, Lady Catherine had decided exactly what was to be done. The properties bequeathed to Miss de Bourgh by the terms of her father’s will could not be withheld from her, except by ingenious legal challenges, which were certain to be protracted and whose outcome must be unknown. But Lady Catherine’s own money remained hers to dispose of as she wished; and she was absolutely determined it should not be bestowed upon such a wicked, ungrateful child as her daughter had revealed herself to be.

  “So,” concluded Miss Bingley, “to everyone’s surprise, including his own, she made Mr. Ryder her heir. Mr. Darcy and his family she considered wealthy enough already; and I think she had a particular disinclination to add to the riches your sister already enjoys. There being no other near relation, Mr. Ryder was the lucky man. He will not be as wealthy as Mr. Darcy. But he will certainly be what is called ‘comfortable.’ Whoever marries him will be assured of a very agreeable situation.”

  For a moment, Mary sat stupefied. It was some time before she spoke.

  “I am surprised no word of this story has yet found its way to Gracechurch Street. But I do not see why you think it should affect my feelings for Mr. Ryder. If I did not encourage his advances before I was aware of his good fortune, you cannot think I would change my mind when I was told of it.”

  Miss Bingley smiled her little smile.

  “I think it is entirely to Mr. Ryder’s credit that he did not mention it to me himself,” continued Mary. “A more foolish man—certainly a less honourable one—might have thought it would make a difference. And with some women, it might well do so.”

  “That is a strike at me, I imagine,” said Miss Bingley, “but I do not feel it. I cannot be lectured by a Bennet on the relationship between love and money and be hurt by it. It is impossible for me to take your protestations at face value when I consider your sisters’ histories, or what your mother would be likely to advise, were you to confide in her.”

  Mary picked up her cup and drank what remained of her tea. She did not hurry as she stood up, plucked her coat from the hook on the wall, and began to put it on.

  “You have insulted me and my family in every possible way,” she said quietly. “There is really nothing more to be said between us.”

  Now Miss Bingley rose, pushing her chair to the wall with such force that it scraped along the floor.

  “Can you promise me you will not marry Mr. Ryder? That your refusal was not mere strategy on your part?”

  “I make no promise, I give you no undertaking. I owe you nothing at all.”

  “But I know you don’t want him—it’s the friend for whom you have such a tendresse, isn’t it, the boring lawyer? Does he know how you feel? Perhaps someone should enlighten him?”

  The venom in Miss Bingley’s voice was unmistakeable, but Mary was surprised to discover herself unaffected by it. With an evenness she did not think she possessed, Mary was quite calm as she tied the ribbons under her hat.

  “For a long time, I was frightened of you, just as you intended me to be. But your power over me is finished now. I see you for what you are—a bitter, angry spirit, so eaten up with unhappiness that you can do nothing but make others as miserable as yourself. If I was a better woman, I should pity you. Instead I am merely grateful that you cannot touch me anymore because I will not allow it.”

  Mary straightened her hair and picked up her things with as much equanimity as if she had been bidding Miss Bingley a polite farewell.

  “If you wish to make trouble, you will do so, whatever I say. But I will not live in fear of it and am therefore quite prepared to tell you what you seem so desperate to know. Yes, I do love Mr. Hayward. He is the only man who I think would ever make me happy. No, I have no wish to marry Mr. Ryder. That is the truth. You may do with it what you will.”

  She turned and left the room, closing the door quietly after herself, and walking down the stairs, head held high. It was only when she reached the street that she trembled a little with shock. But she mastered herself; she was not ashamed of how she had conducted herself or of what she had said. She did not look up once at the great bay window of the pastry shop, behind which she knew Miss Bingley still sat, but walked steadily into Leadenhall Market, heading towards Gracechurch Street and home.

  Chapter 93

  Once back at the Gardiners’, Mary felt at first as though a great weight had slipped from her shoulders. She had slain the dragon that was Miss Bingley by calling upon hitherto unsuspected reserves of bravery and self-possession. She had spoken her mind and told the truth, and there was relief of a kind in that. She did not allow herself to dwell on the extraordinary story of Mr. Ryder’s good fortune. For when she did think of it, it could not help but raise him in her estimation. His declining to mention it suggested a delicacy on his part which was wholly admirable, a desire to be accepted for himself and not for his expectations. That made her think better of him as a man; but it did not encourage her to reconsider his offer. Any doubts that had lingered about whether she had been right to refuse it had been swept away in the tea shop. The strength of her affections had been put to the test, and her bleak declaration to Miss Bingley had summed up the truth of the matter. She loved Mr. Hayward and only he would make her truly happy.

  This knowledge, however, was not calculated to bring her any peace. She supposed she must assume whatever affection he had once felt for her was quite obliterated—what else could explain his long-continued silence? But that did not prevent her from thinking about him at all hours of the day and night. She missed him at the dinner table, where his jokes and observations had made her laugh, and in the drawing room, where she had first heard him talk properly of poetry. Her heart contracted when the children asked where he was, and when he—and his pockets full of sweets—would return. She no longer wore the dress made from the cotton he had recommended when they first met at Harding and Howell’s, but folded it up and put it away. Every knock at the door, every arrival of the post, was a new occasion for pain. She did not know how she would face him when he returned to London, as she knew eventually he must. How would she conduct herself? What would she say? No matter how often she imagined it, she did not know.

  As the days went by, Mary attempted to impose some discipline on her feelings, telling herself she must find ways not to dwell upon her sadness. To abandon herself to misery was to allow the Miss Bingleys of the world victory over her, and to confirm the correctness of all her mother’s opinions on the relations between marriage and happiness. In their different ways, Mary understood that neither of these ladies would have been disappointed to learn that she was miserable; and this spurred her into making efforts that she would not otherwise have had the
energy or spirits to attempt. Thus, she forced herself to rise early, to have her hair properly dressed, and to keep herself neatly turned out. These seemed minor victories over such a profound sense of loss, but she saw them as essential battles in a campaign she could not afford to lose. If she allowed unhappiness to swallow her up, she might never escape its clutches again. So she dusted off her books, got out pen and paper, and tried to think of a new course of study to engage her mind. She played with the Gardiner children; she practised on the piano once more. And when she went out on her City walks, she pushed herself to explore beyond her usual territories, forcing herself to discover new streets, unfamiliar monuments, and different districts. It was always better, she found, to do something rather than nothing; and thus, for week after week, she occupied herself.

  It was on exactly such a journey that one afternoon Mary found herself in an area she did not know at all. She had gone beyond St. Paul’s, and was attempting to find her bearings, when she heard the sound of shouting and singing approaching along the street. She shrank into the shelter of a nearby shopfront, resolving to escape inside if the noise proved to indicate trouble; but as it drew nearer, it became clear that it was a very good-natured hullaballoo. She stole cautiously out of her refuge to see what it was, and beheld a large group of young men, cheering and huzzahing as they marched along. On the pavement, an older man stood watching them with the greatest satisfaction, beating time to their singing with his stick. He looked prosperous and respectable enough for a woman alone to speak to him; and Mary decided to risk an approach.

  “Excuse me, sir, but may I ask you what is going on? Who are the marchers and what are they celebrating?”

  The gentleman doffed his hat and smiled at her, seemingly pleased to be asked.

  “Why, ma’am, they are medical students from Barts Hospital. They have finished their exams and they are parading in triumph, off to a grand dinner at a tavern to mark their efforts.”

  He gazed at them indulgently and turned back to Mary.

  “I was one of them myself more years ago than I care to admit; and I like to see the old traditions kept up.”

  “They will be doctors then, sir, as you are now?”

  “Yes, if they survive their time on the wards. Usually there is one amongst them who has done better than the rest and is appointed their king for the day. He is distinguished by the wearing of a crown of oak leaves—like the Caesars you know—ah, here he is now, right in the midst of them!”

  He pointed at the crowd, and Mary found herself looking directly at the flushed, happy face of John Sparrow. He was a young man now rather than a great boy; but there was no mistaking his familiar features. The oak leaf crown had slipped a little and gave him a slightly tipsy look; but beneath his excitement, she could see a sharp, intelligent face. His fellows patted him on the back, cheered and joshed him; it was plain he was utterly at home in their company. He has found his place, thought Mary, deeply moved. He is happy. I did not injure him so badly that he could not recover his spirit. He will become everything he wished to be, with his brass plate on the door and his carriage outside. She turned away, for she did not wish to catch his eye and ruin the moment. She was part of his past and had no place in his joyous, noisy present.

  Her face was shining as she bid the older man goodbye.

  “Thank you so much, sir, for explaining it to me. I am so glad to have seen such a remarkable thing.”

  He tipped his hat to her again as she left, pleased to find that he was not old enough to have lost his appreciation for the smile of a charming young woman.

  Mary did not know quite why it was, but somehow her encounter with John Sparrow began to soothe her anxious mind. Seeing him so carefree and fulfilled released her from a burden which she had been carrying for so long that she did not appreciate the weight of it until it slid away. If she was not any happier, she felt steadier, more able to contemplate a future in which Mr. Hayward played no part. If she must find her way forward alone, then so be it. Perhaps the life of a single woman need not be as miserable and as humiliating as was universally insisted upon. Perhaps much depended on the circumstances and the woman. After all, Mary thought, she would never be as poor and as desperate as the unfortunate Miss Allen. Her sisters’ marriages had rescued her from that fate. They would always provide her with a place to live. She should never find herself hurrying up the drives of country houses to teach young ladies the piano, unable to say where she should find her next shilling. She would always have some little space that was hers; and perhaps a room of one’s own was all a thinking woman really required. She could read and study. She might even attempt to write something herself. Mrs. Macaulay had shown it might be done. Why should she not follow in those footsteps? It was hardly what Mrs. Bennet would regard as a suitable occupation for her daughter. But then her mother had washed her hands of her. She was free now to think as she wished on such matters.

  Through all this, Mrs. Gardiner watched her niece, uncertain what to think. She admired Mary’s strength of will. She applauded her bravery. She was relieved to see her no longer so hopelessly, desperately miserable; but for all her dry-eyed fortitude, there was something quashed and doused about her that was painful to watch. Resignation was clearly to be preferred to the alternative, but perhaps only just.

  Chapter 94

  Mary was upstairs putting her books in order one quiet afternoon when she heard the bell sound, the front door open, and a visitor arrive. She had trained herself to pay little attention to such comings and goings—why should they concern her?—and continued dutifully with her task. She was so absorbed that she did not hear Mrs. Gardiner come hurrying up the stairs, did not notice her at all until, breathing hard, her aunt burst through the door into her room.

  “Mary, he is here! Tom is here—downstairs—in the drawing room.”

  Mary was dumbstruck. These were the words that for so long she had longed to hear. Time and time again, during dark, sleepless nights, on silent afternoons in the airless drawing room, as she walked down dusty City streets, she had imagined them being said, had wondered how they would sound, what she would feel, how she would act. And now it had actually happened, they had been said, and she sat rooted to the spot, speechless.

  “Come, this won’t do. He is asking for you. You must go down.”

  Mary saw her aunt, felt her agitation and concern, heard the anxiety in her voice—but all these things somehow seemed at a great remove from her. It was as if she stood quite apart from herself, watching her aunt, the room, her books, all from a distance. Then suddenly the shock passed—she understood—took a deep, shuddering breath—and was somehow herself again.

  “He is really here? He has come at last?”

  “Yes, yes, he has, and he wants to talk to you. Do please come down.”

  Mrs. Gardiner held out her hand; but Mary did not take it.

  “I need a minute alone. To compose myself. Please tell him I will be there shortly. I have waited so long for him, I think he may wait a little now for me.”

  Mrs. Gardiner looked at her imploringly.

  “Mary, I beg of you, do not give in to angry feelings yet. Give him a chance. Let him speak to you.”

  “I will. But I hope he will also listen to me. And I cannot come down before I have it clear in my head exactly what I want to say.”

  Mrs. Gardiner hesitated; but Mary was immoveable. Once her aunt had gone, she sat staring blankly at her writing desk, before laying her head gently against its cool smooth surface. She could smell the faint scent of wood polish, and it occurred to her that it was not quite as pleasant as the recipe of which Charlotte Collins had been so proud. She closed her eyes and remained there motionless for a minute. Then she sat up, reached into a drawer, and pulled out a small black bag. Inside, she found the Greek dictionary Mr. Collins had given her, and withdrew from its pages the single slip of paper on which he had written a few words of Greek.

  Happiness depends on ourselves.

  S
he looked at it intently, then folded it up and pushed it down the front of her dress. Only then did she smooth down her hair and make her way downstairs.

  It took a great deal of courage to walk into the drawing room. She hesitated for a moment outside the door. Then somehow she was inside, and there he was, standing at the long window, staring out into the street. A dark man in a dark jacket. Whenever she had thought of him, he had always been wearing the loose brown coat he wore on the fells. Now here he was, in city clothes. Tall, and thinner than when she last saw him. When he turned towards her, she was shocked—he looked as drawn and as unhappy as she knew she did herself.

  “Miss Bennet. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you again.”

  At the sound of his voice, her self-control nearly deserted her; but she was determined not to falter.

  “Yes, sir. It has been too long, I think.”

  He moved towards her and was about to reply—but Mary interrupted him.

  “I did not mean that as a mere politeness. It has been nearly two months since we last saw you.”

  “I know it,” he answered, his voice grave. “I have counted every day. Every hour.”

  He stopped, standing in the silent, sunlit drawing room, as if he would go no further towards her without some encouragement.

  “I am here to tell you how very much I have missed you. And to discover if—as I very much hope—you may have missed me too.”

  He is very brown, thought Mary, no doubt tanned by his walking. It made his eyes seem very bright in his face.

  “I have come to explain, Mary, if you will allow me to do so. And to ask your forgiveness. I know I do not deserve it. But I hope you will grant it anyway.”