The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice

by Jennifer Paynter

  “Yes,” said Cassandra drily. “That has not escaped my notice.”

  Helen walked in then with her arms full of parcels. But still the talk was of Mr. Bingley, for Helen had seen his housekeeper Mrs. Nicholls in the street and Mrs. Nicholls had told her that Mr. Bingley planned to attend the following Tuesday’s assembly with a large party. “He is very fond of dancing apparently so you and I must go to this ball, Cass, do you hear? No arguments. I am quite determined.”

  Cassandra smiled but said nothing, and Helen began to undo the largest of her parcels. “Every girl in Meryton will be wearing a new gown I imagine—the Bennet girls certainly will, won’t they, Mary? And so too now will the Long girls—voilà!” (The parcel contained a quantity of white book muslin and Cassandra, seeing it, stopped smiling.) “La! You need not look like that. It was not expensive—not really—and I shall make up the gowns myself. But see here, chérie—look at these.” She tore open a parcel containing two pairs of long white kid gloves. “I just could not resist. French of course, one can always tell.”

  Cassandra said: “How much did all this cost, Helen?”

  “Oh Lord, who cares? Anyway, Aunt gave us that money before she left. She wants us to look our best. She wants us to dance with Mr. Bingley—”

  “Aunt gave us that money for housekeeping expenses. And Mr. Bingley may not attend the assembly.”

  Helen began to open another parcel, addressing her remarks rather pointedly to me: “Mrs. Nicholls told me that Mr. Bingley’s greatest friend is soon to visit Netherfield—a single gentleman with vast estates in Derbyshire.” (The parcel I saw contained two pairs of silk stockings.) “His name is Darcy and he has a fortune of ten thousand pounds a year.”

  “Good God!” Cassandra was staring at the stockings. “Are they silk? How much did they cost?”

  I thought it prudent to leave the kitchen at that point, and after collecting my book I went upstairs to Cassandra’s painting room to await her there. It was a while before she joined me, however, and when she did, she seemed preoccupied. I knew she would not complain to me of Helen—Cassandra was a most loyal sister—but she said as she set out her paints: “I do wish that Aunt had not had to go away just now. But she will return the day before the assembly, thank heaven. I confess I am not at all looking forward to this ball, Mary.”

  “You mean to go then?” I was surprised. Cassandra never attended the assemblies.

  She was now mixing her colors and did not answer immediately. “To say the truth, I have not made up my mind. But if Helen were to make up a new gown for me, I should feel obliged to go, I daresay.”

  I was astonished—Cassandra was not selfish, but she was single-minded in pursuing her art and to that end everything had to give way—not excepting the claims of family. She had precious little leisure moreover and guarded it most jealously. Yet here she was, talking of going to a silly public ball to oblige her sister!

  Looking at her now, still mixing her colors, I could not believe her. And perhaps she saw it in my face—the doubt—for she quickly changed the subject. “But how are you getting on with your song? All this talk of balls has made me quite forget.”

  “Oh.” (I had not been looking forward to this question.) “Well, our music master did not care for the ballad I wrote—did not think it at all tuneful. He suggested I try my hand at a patriotic song—something martial.”

  “Something martial!”

  “Something similar to ‘Rule, Britannia!’ Mr. Turner thought.”

  “Oh Mary, what nonsense is this? You know nothing of war or soldiers and sailors—nothing at firsthand.”

  “Well, but now that the militia regiment is to be quartered at Meryton—”

  “Oh good God. ’Tis as bad as your Commonplace Book! No, you must write something from your own experience—take no notice of Mr. Turner.”

  I was silent, mortified by her reflection on my Commonplace Book, and after a pause she said more collectedly: “If I did not think you had talent, I would not care what you wrote. But you have assured me that you are serious about song-writing and that being the case—”

  “I am! I am serious.”

  Cassandra shook her head and after a moment and because she had hurt me, I said: “I’m sure I have never told you what to paint, Cassy—or what not to paint. And it is not as though I were obliged to earn my living writing songs.”

  The words were no sooner spoken than regretted. She gave me one of her looks but said nothing. I took up my book then and pretended to read. It was the first time we had had a serious falling-out and I felt it keenly. She felt it too (she owned as much to me later) but we kept up a charade of concentration until the maidservant came in to ask about the wash. I used the interruption as an excuse to hurry away.

  8.

  The Bennets were the first family to arrive at the assembly. Mama led the way into the inn’s entrance passage with Jane and Elizabeth following, and Kitty, Lydia, and myself bringing up the rear.

  Lydia was talking loudly despite Jane and Elizabeth begging her to lower her voice. “But there is nobody to hear me except the waiters! Nobody is yet come besides ourselves.” And then with a snort of laughter as we began to mount the stairs: “Lord, we do look like a gaggle of geese. All of us in white and Mama with her headdress of white plumes.”

  “And you with your cackle,” said Kitty, who was cross because Lydia had crowded her in the carriage.

  “And Lizzy with her hiss,” said Lydia as once again Elizabeth tried to hush her.

  Fortunately we encountered nobody on the stairs but as we were about to enter the gallery leading to the rooms, a dark, gypsy-looking young man came flying up after us. He was clutching a fiddle in one hand and a bow in the other, and in his haste to overtake us, somehow or other his bow caught itself in the folds of my shawl. It was a simple matter to free it, however, and after a hasty “beg pardon” he hurried on towards the assembly room.

  “Dear Mary! Your gown is not torn?” Jane with her usual thoughtfulness stepped back to assure herself that all was well with me.

  “He must be one of the musicians,” said Elizabeth. “Can it be that we have stolen a march on them?”

  As we approached the assembly room, now brilliantly lit up with candles, there came the sound of instruments being tuned, and upon our entering the room the four musicians (of whom the young man was indeed one) immediately struck up “Over the Hills and Far Away.”

  It was a beautiful gesture, both an apology and a welcome, for we were their only audience. Lydia, out of sheer high spirits, executed a couple of dance steps, and at the end of the air we all applauded. I have often since recalled the scene—the six of us standing on the threshold of the long, bright, empty room—standing (it strikes me now) on a threshold not merely literal, for the night would bring Jane and Elizabeth their future husbands, and Mr. Darcy would in turn influence Lydia’s fate.

  The young man approached me shortly afterwards to make certain that neither I nor my shawl had sustained any lasting injury. His manner was respectful but his hawk-nose and brown face began to make me feel uneasy. I was sure that I had seen him before, and—bethinking myself of the Bath Harmonic Society—I asked him if he had ever visited that town.

  “Never been there in m’life, Miss.” He gave me a crooked smile. “I lived in London for a spell but I was born and bred in these parts. I once lived in the village of Longbourn—in Collins Cottage.”

  “You did? Good heavens, what is your name?”

  He bowed. “Bushell, Miss. Peter Bushell.”

  One of the musicians called to him then, and he again bowed and left me—which was as well since I was quite bereft of speech. I could scarcely have been more shocked if he had introduced himself as Bonaparte.

  “Mary! Come here, I want you. You too, Kitty.”

  I moved to obey Mama’s summons but my attention remained fixed upon Peter Bushell. During my illness, many childish fears had been revived and magnified, and the memory of Bushell—the mer
e mention of the name—still had the power to unnerve me. Mama, moreover, had assured me that the Bushells had all left the country. And I did not at all care for the way that Peter—now tucking his fiddle under his chin—was looking across at me and smiling.

  “I wonder that Mr. Bingley is not yet come.” (Mama, having taken her customary seat by the fire, was beginning to fidget.) “The landlady assured me he would come early.”

  Here Elizabeth observed that it was an object among fashionable young men to come late to an assembly.

  “Nonsense, you know nothing about it. Mr. Bingley always comes early. The landlady—Mrs. Curry—she had it from his housekeeper. He always comes early and leaves late.” (I saw Jane and Elizabeth exchange glances. Mama’s motive in bringing us here so early was now explained.) “And my sister Philips and Mrs. Long promised to give me the meeting. Not that I blame Mrs. Long, for she keeps no carriage and must come in a hack chaise, but I do think my sister could have managed things better.”

  I mistrusted my mother in this humor. She was liable to find fault for no good reason and I feared now that she would remark on my figure—I had removed the jeweler’s wool that she had had Nan stuff into the under-bodice of my gown to make my form appear more womanly. But it was Elizabeth upon whom her irritation finally fastened.

  “Upon my word, Lizzy, the more I look at your hair, the less I like it.” (Elizabeth had dressed her hair after the Roman fashion—the front in curls and the rest combed back with a bandeau wound about her head.) “That style does not at all become you, you know—it looks like nothing so much as an old bandage—as if you had tied up your head in an old bandage. You had much better change it. There is more than enough time.”

  Elizabeth’s response was a calm: “I am sorry you do not like it, ma’am. But Jane is in great good looks tonight. That must content you.”

  And Jane did indeed look especially lovely. She wore a frock of plain white silk, cut low, and in her hair, white flowers.

  But nothing could long divert my attention from Peter Bushell. The musicians were now rehearsing a reel, and he was sawing away in a lively manner. Watching him, I began to feel less apprehensive. To be sure, he did look like his father (it was the nose chiefly) but his expression was really not in the least menacing. I perceived too that he played extremely well and that the other musicians looked to him always to take the lead. And he clearly enjoyed making music: His every movement proclaimed it. He did not—as many fiddlers do—hunch over his instrument; he appeared rather to roll with it, holding himself lightly, his brown face all smoothed over with pleasure.

  At the end of the reel he again looked across at me and smiled. I did not know how to respond. I could not possibly befriend a person of his order—encourage such familiarity—but neither did I wish to snub him. In the end, it was he who resolved my dilemma. He held up his fiddle in front of his face. I smiled then—I could not help it—but I resolved to look at him no longer. I turned to Mama, who was complaining about the Red Lion’s landlady: “What a deceitful woman that Mrs. Curry is. Serving me such a trick. But ’tis all of a piece with her other conduct. She once gave me a receipt for a restorative and I am sure it half killed me. ’Twas made all from sheep’s trotters—hark! Is that a carriage? Lydia my love, go to the window. Is it Mr. Bingley?”

  It was the Lucases—closely followed by Aunt and Uncle Philips—and after greetings were exchanged, Mama began once more to complain of Mrs. Curry. This was the moment of release for my four sisters. They all moved off, accompanied by Charlotte Lucas, and although Maria Lucas chose to stay and sit by me, she was all of a twitter and could talk only of Mr. Bingley.

  “What if he were to ask me to dance, Mary? I would die. Oh, do not laugh at me! I am in such a quake—Charlotte has been lecturing me—telling me not to be a goose. But Papa says he has never seen a finer young man than Mr. Bingley—even at the Court of St. James’s.”

  Maria talked on, and I edged back my chair so that I could neither see nor be seen by Peter Bushell (for I was tempted to keep looking at him else) and sought to occupy myself with my own thoughts. The room was now filling fast, but still there was no sign of Mrs. Long or her nieces. I was not looking forward to seeing Cassandra. We had not met since our falling-out of a fortnight back, and although I had written several letters apologizing to her, I had sent none of them—I could not forgive her for scorning my Commonplace Book. And I could not say over my favorite text—Matthew 18:22 on the need to forgive until seventy times seven—without recalling her remarks and feeling freshly aggrieved.

  “Suppose he were to ask you to dance, Mary?” (Maria was still talking of Mr. Bingley.)

  “Oh! gentlemen never ask me to dance, Maria. I am not pretty enough.”

  “Yes, but suppose he did?”

  I shook my head and, perhaps supposing me to be offended, she placed her hand on mine. “For my part, I think a fine mind a thousand times better than a beautiful face. And everyone knows that you are by far the cleverest girl in Meryton.” And then what she thought perhaps would please me more: “I must say I do not think Lizzy is in looks tonight. I do not like the way she has done her hair, but pray do not tell her I said so.”

  Maria was apt to be a little jealous of Elizabeth on account of the latter’s intimacy with Charlotte, but it was true what she said—Elizabeth was not looking her best. She was now standing talking to Charlotte, and watching her, I wondered whether something had happened to put her out of humor; so severe was her expression.

  “Mary.” Maria was whispering in my ear. “Do not look now, but Cassandra Long is come and she has made such a figure of herself.”

  Cassandra and Helen were entering the room in the wake of Mrs. Long, and as their progress was necessarily slow to allow for Mrs. Long’s frequent stops to exchange greetings, I had ample time to observe Cassandra. She looked amazingly different—a homemade travesty of high fashion. Her hair was loose and curled in a style similar to Helen’s and her gown had a deep décolleté embroidered with gold braid. She had stopped to talk to Lydia and Kitty and my mother now noticed her, saying to Aunt Philips: “Did you ever see such a sight, Sister? Mrs. Long ought never to have permitted—” And then on the nearer approach of that same lady: “Ah, Mrs. Long! How delightful your nieces look to be sure—I declare I should not have known Cassandra. But how is it you are so late? We have been waiting for you this half hour at least.”

  But there was no time for Mrs. Long to explain about the tardy hack chaise, for the bustle at the entrance to the room—the coming forward of the inn master, Mr. Curry—betokened the arrival of Mr. Bingley and his party. Every eye was on the doorway as five fashionably dressed people—two ladies and three gentlemen—stepped into the room.

  They were all of them extremely fine, the ladies especially, but when Sir William Lucas moved to welcome them, Mr. Bingley was the only one of the party who smiled. I recognized him at once and also one of the other gentlemen—the man who had lain asleep in the chaise (now covering a yawn with the back of his hand)—and for one incredulous second I thought I also recognized the third gentleman. On his moving into the light, however, I saw that he was not Mr. Jasper Coates. It was a striking resemblance nevertheless, and I looked across at Elizabeth to see how she bore it.

  What I saw quite shocked me. Her face was as white as the bandeau she wore around her head. And whilst I averted my eyes as one would from another’s nakedness, the sight stayed with me, so that her later disparagement of Mr. Darcy—her unending criticisms and witticisms—none of it served to convince me that she did not care about him.

  But I found I had withdrawn my gaze from one embarrassing spectacle only to be confronted by another. Cassandra was blushing all down her neck. Mr. Bingley had bowed to her. Her curled hair had not prevented him from recognizing her—indeed, he seemed quite overjoyed to see her—but none of the other members of his party joined him when he beckoned. They had stayed talking amongst themselves.

  It was then that the orchestra str
uck up “The Beggarman.” At first I thought it must be meant as a joke, an ironic comment on the party’s rich apparel, for the pearls and lace of the ladies were beyond anything and quite out of place at a country assembly. I determined then to take a peep at Peter Bushell to see if he looked at all satirical, and to that end edged out my chair. But he was playing most soulfully, his eyebrows in a tender circumflex above his hawk-nose. I concluded therefore that I must have been mistaken.

  9.

  No two views of a ball will be exactly alike. So many separate little worlds make up the whole (most of them whirling mindlessly about) and my own view of that Meryton assembly cannot help but be different from that of my sisters.

  For the first part of the evening I was a mere onlooker. After supper, I may have shocked a few people but before supper I was a fixed observer—unmoving and unmoved. Nobody turned my head with compliments. Nobody asked me to dance. It is true that I was introduced to Mr. Bingley’s sisters as the most accomplished girl in Meryton, but it was an epithet frequently bestowed and Miss Bingley’s questions made me acutely aware of my lack of accomplishments: Which of the modern languages had I studied? Only Italian and French? Did I have no knowledge then of German? Did I neither draw nor paint? Had I not been taught to dance? What instrument did I play? Aside from the pianoforte of course—everybody played the pianoforte.

  My humiliation, however, was nothing to what Elizabeth had to endure. I was not by when Mr. Darcy slighted her. I had gone to procure a glass of wine for Maria Lucas, who, after having danced the two fourth with Mr. Bingley, had returned to her seat with her senses seemingly disordered. When I came back with the wine, however, she waved away the glass. “Oh, Mary!” (with eyes sparkling) “That odious Mr. Darcy! What do you think? He refused to dance with poor Lizzy—even though Mr. Bingley begged and implored him. He said she was not handsome enough to tempt him.”

  Later, at supper, I heard Elizabeth tell the story herself, and although she laughed as she recounted it, I fancied that she had been hurt and was now at pains to hide it. I began to feel quite sorry for her. She was not personally vain but she was used to hearing herself described as beautiful, second only to Jane in looks, and it must have come as a shock therefore to learn that such a fine young man (however disagreeable) did not consider her handsome. She certainly appeared to be in an odd, hectic sort of humor. She had cast aside her bandeau so that her hair was now loose, and this together with her flushed face and all the laughter made me wonder if she had drunk too much of Mrs. Curry’s negus.