Peter was standing by the windows when I walked in. He was wearing his black Sunday-best clothes and looked a little grim. Mr. Galbraith was leaning against one of the bookcases, arms folded, frowning down at his leather gaiters. I joined Peter by the window while my father took up a position in front of the fire.
For a short time nobody spoke. There was just the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the rustlings of the small fire burning beneath. I knew it was the sort of situation my father delighted in—keeping us all in suspense—and in an effort to check my childish fear, I breathed deep and took a deliberate inventory of the room. I noted that the two wing chairs which always stood on either side of the fireplace had been recovered (the chairs he and Elizabeth always sat in to play at chess) and that on top of the pile of letters on his desk was one that had come from Mr. Collins—I recognized the sprawling, unformed hand. But looking about, I realized how much I disliked this domain of my father’s. In spite of its comforts and the smell of books, it was not a welcoming place: It had too many unhappy associations.
“I’ll tell you what I will do.”
My father was talking, and in such a way as made me think he must have crafted his speech. “I will not consent to an engagement but I will allow you to correspond.”
Peter said: “Sir, it takes at least four months for a letter to reach New South Wales.”
“I know it does.”
The smile that accompanied this was dreadful but Peter was seemingly unaware. “I did not think to correspond with Mary, sir. I thought I would write to her just the once—I hoped that after I’d arrived in the Colony and seen for m’self how things were—”
“Yes, yes, I know what you hoped. But supposing you find this place is not the land of opportunity your father led you to believe—or that his property is not so extensive—would you own as much to my daughter?”
“Certainly I would.”
Peter was now looking annoyed and Mr. Galbraith spoke for the first time. “I’ve known Peter for the best part of seven years, Mr. Bennet. I’ve always found him to be completely truthful.”
My father seemed not to hear; he continued to address Peter: “Mary has many accomplishments as I’m sure you’re well aware, but she has no turn for housewifery. She cannot boil an egg even. I fear she will be expensive to keep—even in New South Wales.”
I wondered then if he were testing Peter, doubting his attachment still, hoping to expose him as self-seeking. Peter for his part was looking increasingly annoyed. Again, Mr. Galbraith spoke up: “I must say when Miss Mary stayed at Stoke Farm she made herself very useful in the kitchen—she helped our cook to make a Savoy cake.”
This made my father laugh. “Mary made a cake, did she? Well, well. Better that than she should make a cake of herself, I suppose.”
Peter then burst out: “Why must you always be making game of Mary? ’Tis not fair, ’tis not sporting.”
“Sporting!”
The smile had quite left my father’s face and Mr. Galbraith said quickly: “Mr. Bennet, sir, I do believe these two young people really care for each other. I know there is some difference in their backgrounds—Miss Mary being a gentleman’s daughter and my friend Peter—”
“For your information, Mr. Galbraith, my own wife is not a gentleman’s daughter.”
My father was smiling again but it was the smile I mistrusted most, being a nasty side-twisting of his mouth. It silenced Mr. Galbraith, however, and my father now turned to me: “But what about you, Mary? How do you feel about the prospect of spending your days in comparative poverty? Or perhaps you feel that worldly considerations do not matter since your sisters have made such splendid matches? What have you to say, hmm?”
I could think of nothing to say—nothing to quote. The old fear of my father was rapidly getting the better of me.
It was then that Peter took my hand. That steadied me and of a sudden it came to me what I would say. I would quote Shakespeare’s Cordelia—I would say, “Nothing.”
As soon as I spoke the word, I felt better—cleansed—and inside my head I kept saying it over like an incantation, holding tight to Peter’s hand the while.
“Nothing?”
My father, unconsciously, had followed Shakespeare’s script. He was frowning, perhaps out of puzzlement, and Peter now addressed him in a more respectful way. “Mr. Bennet, when I first spoke to you, you were concerned about the distance of the Colony. You said how Mrs. Bennet’d want her daughters settled nearby and how far off she thought Newcastle, let alone New South Wales.”
My father listened to this without demur. “Well?”
“Well, I can’t do anything about that, sir, but if you’re concerned about the—the extent of m’father’s property and whether it’d allow me to support Mary in comfort, I can only tell you what m’father has written me.”
Peter then spoke of his father’s two farms—how the larger one in a place called Parramatta had a proper stone-built house, complete with verandah and a parlor thirty feet long. “And then there’s the Sydney inn and the general store. M’father tells me that his income from the store alone amounts to some three hundred a year. I know it mightn’t sound a lot to you—”
“On the contrary. Pray go on.”
“I only have m’father’s word for all this, but as soon as I’m able to see for m’self I can give you a more detailed account.”
Mr. Galbraith then attested once more to Peter’s integrity: “He’s as sound as a roast, Mr. Bennet. Respected by everyone on the estate. Most keepers—the ordinary folk detest them because they try to lord it over, but Peter always plays fair—”
“Yes, yes.” I saw that my father was becoming impatient but Mr. Galbraith kept on: “These young people aren’t planning anything rash—they’re prepared to wait. That will be the proof of the pudding to my mind—whether their attachment will stand the test of time.”
His eyes were now glistening and I guessed that he was thinking of his Sukie Holloway. “I’m no advocate for hasty marriages, Mr. Bennet—God knows it cost me a pretty penny to rescue my poor sister from one—but Peter’s done the honorable thing by you here. He deserves to be taken seriously.”
He blew his nose then, retiring behind a great spotted handkerchief, and because I feared my father might mock this show of sentiment I said: “Papa, I did not give you a proper answer earlier—when you asked what I had to say about living in poverty and I said ‘nothing’—I was quoting someone else’s words when I should have spoken for myself.” I breathed deep. “I want you to know, sir, that I am not afraid of living in poverty—comparative poverty—if Peter and I can be together.”
“Well, well.” My father was looking almost benign. “Whose words?”
“Shakespeare’s, sir—Cordelia’s.”
“Ah yes, to her tyrannical old father, King Lear.” He was silent then, looking first at me and then at Peter and finally down at the fire. At last he turned to Peter. “I shall think over what you have proposed, Bushell. But I cannot consent to any formal engagement at present, you understand. Everything is yet too uncertain. And I shall say nothing of this to my wife. You will not be leaving for several months and after that there will be a four or five months’ voyage, and the same amount of time must pass before Mary can receive your letter. Howsoever—” He held out his hand. “We will talk again, and in the meantime I hope you will call at Longbourn—to instruct Mary to play the fiddle perhaps—but the pretext I leave to your discretion.”
He then shook hands with Mr. Galbraith. “Perhaps sir, Mary might come to you at Stoke Farm this Christmas? She will of course wish to make herself useful in the kitchen once more.”
19.
In the wake of my sisters’ weddings, an unusual peace fell upon Longbourn. It was not so much that the place was quieter—Lydia’s absence had already brought that about—it was more that by marrying off three of her daughters, my mother’s purpose in life had been dulled, at least temporarily, and with it much of the atten
dant agitation.
The news that George was to marry Helen Long (announced by an elated Mrs. Long a few days after my sisters’ nuptials) had upset her, however. George had been my rightful property and the fact that the wedding was to be a fashionable London one at St. George’s, Hanover Square, and that Purvis Lodge was to be deeded over to George as a wedding present also rankled. She consoled herself by predicting the worst: “They will never be happy together. Helen is such a flighty little thing and George is by far too young—twenty is far too young for a man to settle. I wonder that Mr. and Mrs. Purvis should have given their consent. If he had been my son I should never have agreed to it.”
And when my father reminded her that he had attained his majority a mere three weeks before their own wedding day: “Oh! but you were such a sensible, serious young man, my dear, there can be no comparison.”
Here, my father had actually winked at me, for in the absence of my sisters he had become kinder to me—or rather he had become less unkind. Certainly he considered my feelings more. He had not permitted Mama to press me to go to Pemberley, for instance, when Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy invited us all there for Christmas.
“Mary has already accepted an invitation to Stoke Farm,” said he. “And you would not wish her to slight an old friend, my dear, surely.”
“Oh! as to that, I am sure Mrs. Knowles would understand. Nobody in their right mind could be expected to pass up an invitation to Pemberley.”
“That’s as may be, Mrs. Bennet. Mary must decide for herself.”
But there was one area where he did not allow me to have my way. With Kitty now spending much of her time staying either with Jane or Elizabeth and my mother being quite unable to be by herself, I was obliged to mix more in the world—my mother’s world, that is—and accompany her on her morning calls. Whenever I begged to be excused, protesting that the talk was so trivial—nothing but neighborhood gossip and the latest fashions—my father would not listen, saying that it would help prepare me for the society of New South Wales. And I later overheard him telling the new Mrs. Bingley that it did me a great deal of good to be exposed to such frippery things: “Mary was used to be mortified by comparisons with her sisters’ style and beauty. Now, conceivably, she may eclipse you all.”
And certainly there would come a time after Peter left when I was glad to have to go out—glad to be diverted—because our separation was a long one, almost a year and a half, and only on receipt of Peter’s letter some ten months after his departure from England did my father at last consent to our engagement.
1.
Peter’s long-awaited letter from New South Wales arrived just before Easter while we were all at Pemberley—Hill having redirected the package from Longbourn—and my father announced the engagement at the breakfast table: “I am happy to inform you all that Mary is to be married,” He held up Peter’s untidy-looking letter. “To a Mr. Peter Bushell, who lives in New South Wales.”
And amidst the ensuing furor, above my mother’s hysterics and the incredulous exclamations of Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy, my father read aloud the letter. There was more than one grammatical error in it but such was my happiness that I felt no shame, only a deep thankfulness that God had at last seen fit to answer my prayers. I said over to myself the words of the 138th psalm: “In the day when I cried thou answeredst me, and strengthened me with strength in my soul.”
Later, Elizabeth and Jane spoke to me very seriously. Jane was concerned for my safety: “I cannot help feeling a little anxious, dear. You will be living so far away and amongst such a different set of people.”
Elizabeth was more concerned about the society itself: “Who will you mix with, my dear Mary? Are they not for the most part convicts?”
“You have been gently raised, dear. You cannot know the dangers of associating with such people.”
“And what of this man’s mother and sister? Are they not very low sort of women? And you will be shut up with them on the voyage for many months together.”
Here Jane, perhaps seeing I was annoyed, reached for my hand. But the next moment she checked herself on a sharp intake of breath—she was now heavily pregnant—and Elizabeth’s concern was immediately redirected. “Are you in pain? Shall I send for Charles?”
And despite receiving Jane’s repeated assurances, she hovered over her, seeming to forget all about New South Wales until I remarked: “The tardiness of correspondence is a worry certainly—the gradual estrangement it must produce—unless we are careful to write regularly and at length.”
Elizabeth smiled then, still looking at Jane (the old colluding look). “’Tis fortunate then that you are a good letter-writer, Mary. Had it been Lydia, I doubt we would have ever heard from her again.”
Lydia was visiting Pemberley for the first time—without Wickham of course—and she now took me aside to tell me she was acquainted with several officers who had served in the New South Wales Corps: “And I know they all made vast amounts of money while they were out there—trading in rum or gin or some such thing. Wickham was tempted to go out himself and try his luck. However, I am very glad that he thought better of it, for I should not have liked to live in a place where there are so many dishonest people.” And then hastily: “But I am sure you will be very happy there, Mary, for you will be with the man you love—and that, you know, is more important than anything.”
Mr. Darcy too—after his initial astonishment wore off—approached me to say that he had a cousin in the Colonial Office: “I would be happy to write to him if you wish it. He could at least provide you with a letter of introduction to the Governor.”
Of all my acquaintance, only Cassandra expressed unqualified approval, owning that she had a lively curiosity to see the place: “And if Aunt lets her Meryton house and goes to live with Helen and George at Purvis Lodge—as she talks constantly of doing—I shall book my passage tomorrow.”
But whether out of indolence or because he had had second thoughts about letting me go, my father did not book my own passage until Mr. Galbraith called on him a week after we returned to Longbourn. Mr. Galbraith was accompanied by Ruth, and while he and my father conferred in the library, Ruth sat with my mother and me in the drawing room.
It was a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour, for my mother kept eyeing askance Ruth’s plain stuff gown and unfashionable bonnet and addressed her remarks to the portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, which now hung over the chimney-piece. (The painting, in the style of Gainsborough’s celebrated portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, depicted Darcy standing in the grounds of Pemberley with his wife upon one side and his favorite pointer bitch upon the other.)
Did Ruth have any idea of the vast extent of Mr. Darcy’s estate? my mother now wanted to know. The number of carriages and horses he owned? The army of servants in his employ? And more pointedly: the number of his gamekeepers?
My mother went on to enumerate these while Ruth sat composedly, her ungloved hands clasped in her lap. Later, she got up to look more closely at the painting, saying: “I reckon Mary has got the exact same eyes as her sister.”
I could tell my mother was not best pleased by Ruth’s calling me Mary. And when Ruth remarked that the row of bee-hives in the background looked “mighty life-like,” my mother responded with a snort: “Bee-hives!”
A spirit of murmuring now rose in me and I said: “Elizabeth married Mr. Darcy for himself, Mama, not for his possessions.”
“I’ll thank you not to preach to me, my girl!” There followed one of the worst rants since before my sisters were married. I was accused of ingratitude, of disgracing my family by contracting a degrading alliance, of preferring the company of servants to those in my own sphere &c.
My father and Mr. Galbraith walked in while she was still fulminating and I now think that this proved decisive with my father, for the following day he informed me he had instructed his agent to book passages for Ruth, Mrs. Bushell, and myself on the first available ship: “Pray tell your mother, so that she may share in t
he rejoicing.”
Happily, the safe arrival of Jane’s baby—a boy they christened Bennet—diverted my mother’s attention from my departure preparations and I was permitted to pack my trunks in relative peace. There was no talk of placing orders at the London warehouses for wedding clothes of course, but that did not trouble me—Jane and Elizabeth had already made me a handsome present of two dress lengths of white muslin as well as a white silk gown and veil of Honiton lace.
It was not until June though that I at last left for New South Wales, or as Governor Macquarie later liked to call the place, “Australia.” And when my father was reluctant to escort me to Portsmouth, Mr. Galbraith stepped in, accompanying Ruth and Mrs. Bushell and myself to the inn where we were to stay overnight and then next morning to the wharf, where we were to embark in the store-ship Odyssey.
Mr. Galbraith even gave me fatherly advice at parting, drawing me aside from the mêlée of passengers and saying: “Now you will be cooped up on this ship for a good while, my dear, so do not let little things upset you.” A nod towards Mrs. Bushell’s back made clear his meaning.
2.
There is nothing like a long voyage to reveal the true natures of one’s fellow creatures. In the one hundred and forty days it took the Odyssey to sail from Spithead to Sydney I came to know the other cabin passengers extremely well—including, alas, my prospective mother-in-law. Mrs. Bushell’s loyalty to her husband made her, in my view, see the world askew. She blamed the Bennet family for things that were not our fault and many of these grievances surfaced on the voyage. But our first falling-out was over my friendship with a young farmer, a cabin passenger called Thomas Cudlipp, who was going out to New South Wales with his elderly father.
The circumstances were these. Much to my surprise I found myself to be an excellent sailor. As the Odyssey beat her way down the Channel I was able to eat and drink and with only a little difficulty move about, whereas most of my fellow passengers were prostrated in their cabins. Young Mr. Cudlipp was similarly fortunate and whenever we met on deck we would exchange smug smiles and compare notes about our respective patients—Mr. Cudlipp’s father having retreated to his berth a few hours after we weighed anchor, as had both Ruth and Mrs. Bushell.
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 30
