Unexpected Miss Bennet (9781101552780)

by Sarath, Patrice

  ‘Great wealth is as much a curse as it is a blessing, but I think that if one prepares oneself, one can resist temptation,’ Mary said. She was already looking forward to the challenge. Her father looked doubtful.

  ‘What? Not a ribbon or a silk stocking or a pretty bonnet to change your mind? We will see, Mary, if your great resolve is enough to keep you out of the gravest danger of greed and gluttony. But there – I send you to your sister, not to Brighton, so maybe you will manage to withstand the forces that all the fripperies in London will bring to bear.’

  ‘You will see, Papa, I will not fail.’

  At that he laughed and waved a hand at her to go. ‘You go to visit your sister, not minister to heathens in the East, Mary. You are allowed a ribbon or two.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT WAS DECIDED that Mary would travel to Pemberley with her Uncle and Aunt Gardiner, who often journeyed to Derbyshire to visit Lizzy. The Gardiners were special favourites of Darcy and Elizabeth, as they had been instrumental in overcoming the barriers the two young people had put up against each other. Both uncle and aunt dismissed the assertion as preposterous, but were secretly pleased that their niece and her husband thought, or pretended to think, that they had had a hand in their current happiness.

  When they stopped at Longbourn, Mary gave her aunt and uncle a kiss and all her little cousins in turn, two lively girls of eight and ten, and two small boys. They were very happy to see her, for though she was not Jane, Mary was kind to her young cousins in a grave, solemn way. The children had never liked Lydia and Kitty, for they would often tease them and laugh at them.

  ‘Why, Mary, you look very well,’ Mrs Gardiner exclaimed, giving her another kiss. Mary’s complexion was clear and pink and her brown eyes bright. Mrs Gardiner noticed that her middle niece had lost the scowl that perpetually drew her mouth into a downturned line, and the plain blue frock she wore gave an added brightness to her expression.

  ‘It is so good to see you, Aunt,’ Mary replied. Her uncle crushed her into a hug.

  ‘Good to see you, my dear girl,’ he said in his bluff and hearty way. ‘It’s about time you got out from behind a book. How are you? Enjoying your solitude, I hear?’

  ‘Somewhat,’ she replied judiciously, for she had been thinking lately about her current aloneness. So often before her sisters had gone away had she wished for solitude. ‘I had not realized how much I would miss my sisters now they are gone. Family are so important to one, but we don’t ever know how much until we are separated.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ Mr Gardiner said, smiling, well used to Mary’s ways. ‘Well, now you go off to enjoy the delights of Pemberley and Lambton, and I am sure you will have much to tell us when we see you again at Christmas.’

  At the mention of Christmas the little cousins all put up a clamour about their favourite Christmas puddings and songs, games and gifts, until Mr Gardiner had to laughingly threaten them with no puddings and no games unless they could refrain from deafening them all. In the hubbub, Mr Bennet greeted his wife’s brother and they conversed while helping to transfer Mary’s trunk and cases into the carriage. In the meantime, Mary and Mrs Gardiner and Mrs Bennet let the children run to give themselves the patience to withstand the rest of the journey. As they walked they chatted, with Mrs Bennet giving Mrs Gardiner the news of Longbourn and Meryton, unaware perhaps that Mrs Gardiner could take little interest in such news, as she did not know any characters in the drama as Mrs Bennet recounted it. At her first opportunity, Mrs Gardiner turned to Mary and asked her if she looked forward to her journey.

  ‘Mama was not happy at first that I was to go,’ Mary admitted. ‘And I do feel some guilt, but I think it might be better for us to separate now, for we can only feel our reunion that much more strongly.’

  ‘Nonsense, Mary!’ Mrs Bennet said. ‘You will not miss me, for what is Longbourn compared to Pemberley?’

  ‘It will be a lovely holiday,’ Mrs Gardiner agreed. She raised her voice. ‘No! Not in the farmyard!’ The exuberance of the children proved too much for Mrs Bennet. She admonished Mary to not bore her aunt with her sermons, and hurried thankfully back to the house to see about luncheon.

  ‘Now tell me, dear, what of Lydia? Have you heard from her?’

  Should I tell her? Mary wondered. She hesitated, then said, ‘Kitty writes to her, but Lydia writes hardly ever in return, and when she does her notes are short and ill-presented. Lydia writes to Jane much oftener, but I think it is only to ask for money.’

  Mrs Gardiner shook her head. ‘Does Jane send any?’ Mary just looked at her, and Mrs Gardiner sighed. ‘Of course she does.’ They both laughed a little, an unspoken Dear Jane between them. Mary felt a shade of pride that she and her aunt were sharing a conversation as between two grown women, not as between aunt and niece. Then Mrs Gardiner said, ‘She shouldn’t, though I fear that I don’t know what is worse, that Jane supports them or that she does not.’

  Mary puzzled over that for a moment, then she said, ‘Do you mean . . . if Lydia does not get money from Jane, she and Wickham will do something . . . dishonourable?’

  Mrs Gardiner nodded. ‘We all feared, you know, that Lydia had gone on the town when she first disappeared from the For-sters. Her marriage is ill indeed, but at least we can be relieved that for now she is saved from that fate. Unless – I do not know what would make Mr Wickham honour his marriage vows once the money runs out.’

  Mary felt a chill for her sister. ‘How easily a woman falls,’ she whispered. ‘How narrow a path she must tread.’

  Mrs Gardiner instantly felt a pang for talking so forthrightly to a young woman. ‘Well,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Yes, to be sure, but Mary, remember, that goodness is in part chosen. Lydia was given all the advantages of respectable breeding and upbringing, and she chose to throw that all away for an irredeemable wastrel. You have nothing to fear. You have too much sense to lose your self-respect in a bad alliance.’

  I don’t know what I fear more, Mary thought, but could not say as much to her aunt. Losing my respectability . . .

  Or never having the opportunity to prove myself.

  WITH THE CARRIAGES loaded, they all went back to the house and enjoyed a leisurely luncheon. A gentle rain had fallen that morning, but the afternoon was clear and bright, a little breeze sweeping in through the open windows. The children chattered, the men talked over business in their bass voices, and Mary found herself taking part in all the conversations about her with an ease and joy. With the children she discussed kites and hoops, ponies and favourite trees to climb. With Mrs Gardiner she listened as the older woman discussed her roses and her favourite flowers in her garden. She listened to her father and uncle as they easily conversed on the business of town and country and ventured once or twice to make a small comment. They listened in turn and she felt gratified at their attention. Even her mother was less impatient than usual. It was somehow easier to converse when one didn’t have to wait for a chance to impress. Here were only her father, her mother, her aunt and uncle, and their children. With what ease Mary was able to carry on a sensible conversation without attempting to over-awe her companions. In the first place, the children would be insensible to it, and in the second, as she had become acutely aware, her elders would not be insensible enough.

  At last they finished their meal and took their leave. Mary gave her mother and father a hug and a kiss before climbing into the carriage with the Gardiners.

  ‘Be good, daughter,’ came Mr Bennet’s gruff goodbye. ‘Remember, you may have as many ribbons as you want, for I know you of all my daughters will not let it go to your head.’

  Mary tucked herself inside and waved to him as they rattled on their way. When at last she pulled her head back inside the carriage, tightly packed as they were, she thought to herself scornfully, ribbons! Her father certainly seemed preoccupied with them.

  She pulled herself together and settled in for the long journey.

  THEIR WELCOME AT Pemberley was everything the tr
avellers could wish for. Lizzy and Darcy and Georgiana waited to meet them at the top of the drive where their tired horses pulled up in front of the great house. The children tumbled out of the coach; Mr and Mrs Gardiner and Mary followed more sedately.

  Mary threw back her head to look up at the house, tilting up the brim of her modest bonnet. It was not the first time that the Bennets had been to visit Pemberley, but the beauty of the house never failed to strike Mary, who found herself conscious of its age and dignity. This house is almost human, with a great character, rather as if it were a statesman, or a king, she thought. She resolved to write down all of her flights of fancy during her visit, for she was sure that she would be inspired by her surroundings.

  The children and her aunt and uncle were still greeting Lizzy and Darcy, but Georgiana caught her eye. The young girl smiled and bowed, and Mary bowed in return. Georgiana was the same age as Lydia and Kitty, but she was so shy and stiff that Mary had barely exchanged a few words with her.

  ‘Hello,’ Mary said awkwardly, wondering whether they would exchange a sisterly kiss.

  Georgiana blushed but she held out her hand. ‘I am so pleased that you’ve come,’ she said, as if she had to force the words past her lips.

  ‘Thank you. I am happy to be here,’ Mary said. This was so hard! She could not think of anything else to say. Your house is lovely? Mary thought that everyone must tell Georgiana that. Desperately she cast about for some conversation, when Darcy came over to stand by his sister. His smile was not forced but grave, as he always was. Mary was intimidated by her new brother. How she remembered with sharp embarrassment her own attempt to attract him when he first came to their little town with Mr Bingley. She had no charms except for the piano and her voice, which even then she knew were inadequate to the task. She remembered hoping that he would be impressed by her knowledge of music and its delights. Now she hoped his memory was not as keen as her own.

  ‘Miss Mary, I trust your journey was not too fatiguing.’ Still solemn, he bowed.

  ‘Not any more than can be helped,’ she said.

  Lizzy broke away at last from the little cousins and came and took Mary’s hand.

  ‘Oh Mary, do not try to converse with him, the two of you will be miserable exchanging small talk.’ She gave Mary a hug, held her tight, and Mary held her back. They were not often affectionate, but this time Mary felt certain that her sister had been missing her. ‘Come, you can rest after your travels, for I know how cramped a carriage can be. Come, all of you, into the house, and we can talk to our hearts’ content in more comfort than on the drive!’

  Mary watched her sister as they all trooped in, still a chattering, conversing group. Lizzy looked much the same – after all, she had been married scarcely a year. But her conversation had lightened, become less teasing, less likely to draw blood, she thought. Perhaps marriage had softened her edges. The thought unnerved her – was the old Lizzy gone?

  She felt someone looking at her and looked over at Georgiana, who by virtue of the large group now walked next to her. Fortunately she remembered something about the girl from the last time they met.

  ‘Do you still play piano?’ Mary ventured. Georgiana smiled with relief.

  ‘Yes, as often as I can. Your sister is very kind – she says she enjoys listening to me play.’

  At that Mary felt a pang of jealousy – how often had Lizzy impatiently said to her, ‘For goodness’ sake, Mary, leave off!’

  Georgiana went on, ‘But you play, too, and sing. We must play together. It will be so much fun.’

  Mary opened her mouth but could not speak under a rush of so many memories and new feelings. How could she claim to play when she hadn’t touched a piano for weeks? And she remembered the last time she had sung in front of Darcy and Bingley and the rest. Would that she had never become so self-aware!

  ‘I – I don’t,’ she said awkwardly. Georgiana looked at her and, with the idea that she had been mistaken, colour stained her cheeks in another blush. Mary tried to explain but she couldn’t. ‘I stopped,’ she concluded lamely, just as they reached the doors.

  ‘Oh,’ said Georgiana. The two of them turned away from one another, discomfited.

  Their conversation had involved only each other and had been conducted under the guise of the general chatter, but somehow in all the confusion, Lizzy must have heard. She turned and looked at Mary, her expression one of surprise and confusion. Mary ducked her head and hurried past. She would rather not explain that she thought she could not bear to play and be compared to Georgiana Darcy, due to inherit £30,000 and the adulation of society. Georgiana was judged to be quite accomplished, she knew, and she, Mary Bennet, had only small accomplishments to her name, and those were of little consequence, even to her family and her circle of acquaintance. She could not let herself be compared to Georgiana Darcy, for she would only come up wanting.

  She knew what Fordyce would say. He would write that she should accept with humility her limitations and be a true lady, meek and mild. Something within Mary rebelled. I don’t want to be humble, she thought. I want to be known as accomplished. I want to be known for doing something no one has ever done before. If I am not supposed to have these feelings and these ambitions, why was I given them?

  As she followed the others into the house, Fordyce was silent on the matter.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MARY’S FEELINGS OF discontent waned gradually over her stay. Lizzy, Darcy and Georgiana made her feel very welcome, and the house was so grand that it was like living in a palace. Mary’s room was larger than all the bedrooms at Longbourn combined, and she had her own sitting room if she wanted.

  ‘We have no shortage of rooms here – sometimes I wonder at the architect,’ Lizzy said tartly as they took tea with Georgiana in Lizzy’s own parlour. It was a little smaller than the others and more welcoming, and Mary smiled when she saw some bits of furniture and old things from Longbourn that Lizzy had brought for her own use. A faded footstool, upon which Mary now had her slippered feet, a vase in the shape of a somewhat chipped and battered dryad, and some little boxes and pillows now adorned the room.

  ‘I did not know that they had been removed from home until I saw them here,’ she murmured. ‘What did Mama say?’

  Lizzy smiled and did her best to imitate their mother’s flustered tones. ‘ “Lizzy! You surely do not intend to take all these old things to Pemberley!” ’

  ‘I like them,’ Georgiana said stoutly. ‘I am very glad you brought them because they are very sweet.’ She wrinkled her nose, looking much younger than her seventeen years. ‘They remind me of you, Lizzy.’

  ‘What, old and faded and chipped?’ Lizzy laughed and, after a moment of shock, so did Georgiana. Mary could see that she was still not used to her new sister.

  ‘It is good to be reminded of home, I think, but also not to dwell too much on it,’ Mary said. ‘One must get used to one’s new situation.’

  Lizzy looked at her again with the same half-puzzled expression as before, but she let Mary’s comment pass, and the women discussed other things. But later, when Lizzy took her for a walk outside in the grounds, she said to Mary,

  ‘Do you think that I am unhappy here?’

  They faced one another at the end of a long greensward, the wind whipping at the tendrils of hair peeking out beneath their bonnets. Mary took a long time to reply, wondering what to say.

  ‘You seem different,’ she said at last. ‘You used to be more light-hearted.’

  ‘Oh Mary,’ Lizzy said, but it was not with the usual tones that Mary was used to. Lizzy was almost crying. ‘I am not unhappy. I am so happy with Darcy that sometimes I cannot sleep at night for fear I will wake up and it will be all a dream. I do miss my family, though, and I do miss Longbourn. That is why I brought those little ornaments with me, not to remind me of home because I hate Pemberley, but because I am Longbourn, just as those things are, and they, and I, have become Pemberley, and so does Pemberley become Longbourn.’

&n
bsp; Mary had been holding her breath. At the end of Lizzy’s speech she expelled it with a small gasp. ‘Oh Lizzy,’ she said. ‘I thought – what if you were not happy here? I didn’t know what to think. I came because I thought you missed Longbourn so much and I was the only sister who could comfort you.’

  This time Lizzy was speechless. ‘Oh,’ she said at last, softly, and in that word Mary knew she had been mistaken.

  ‘Then, why did you want me to come?’ If it was not for Lizzy’s sake, what had been the reason?

  Lizzy took her hand. ‘I feel I may have behaved very badly,’ she said, and her expression was merry again. ‘Please do not hate me, Mary, for it is Jane’s fault.’

  ‘Jane?’ This was becoming stranger and stranger. What had Jane to do with Mary coming to Pemberley?

  ‘We felt you needed a respite from Longbourn. Kitty and Mama let drop some small hints without knowing it that you were at a loose end, so we conspired to bring you here.’

  No small bit of outrage stiffened Mary’s back. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Nothing ill, just that you seemed at odds with yourself. And then, when you arrived, you told Georgiana that you didn’t play any more. Mary, music was your solace. What has happened?’

  Lizzy looked at her intently. Mary found tears coming into her eyes and she forced them back; then, impatiently, she wiped them furiously with a small scrap of handkerchief.

  ‘Sometimes, Lizzy, one can practise and practise and still not become accomplished. And even if one is pronounced accomplished in a very small society, it is not much compared to a grander set. So there. I don’t miss it one bit, you know.’

  Lizzy let her sister compose herself, knowing that any expression of sympathy would only cause Mary to become quite over-set. When she felt that enough time had passed, she glanced over at the younger woman. Mary’s nose was red but otherwise she had calmed herself. Lizzy said gravely, ‘Society – true society – doesn’t vary, whether it is small or grand. You should not let imagined censure close you off from something you love and that gives the world a little pleasure.’