Mary B

by Katherine J. Chen

  Though she’d never admit it herself, a childless marriage and the general tedium which accompanied a life that boasted neither particular tragedy nor happy distinction had caused my aunt Philips to devote the majority of her energies to originating and circulating as many miniature dramas as possible to disturb the normal course of a day. She enjoyed hosting frequent parties at her home, as doing so kept her informed of all goings-on in the county and provided ample opportunity for her, in turn, to share updates on the latest dissolution of marriages, the futility of acquiring good help, and such other misfortunes as have been mankind’s lot to suffer since our ancestors’ first fall from grace. She prided herself on being able to name a vast network of friends she possessed owing to her good sense, unshakable principles, and intelligence. I have, in fact, witnessed on many occasions, whether at balls or at private dinners, the generosity of my aunt’s memory in naming individuals of less than half an hour’s acquaintance her intimate companions and within the first few moments of introduction entrusting virtual strangers with her ever-increasing knowledge of the private affairs of other people’s households.

  Her features having been restored to as near a state of indifference as could be expected in so short a time, Aunt Philips happened to turn from the table where her favorite niece and sister remained sitting to where I lay, some few feet away. She started, as if seeing me for the first time. From an early age, I was aware that she noted little in me to entertain her and, therefore, felt entirely at liberty to ignore me whenever she wished. As she perceived the state I was in, however, a flicker of hope, even of gratitude, livened her expression. Her cheeks reddened. Her eyes gleamed, and she wetted her lips before opening her mouth and releasing a delighted and guttural moan.

  “Oh, Mary,” she shouted happily. “You’re bleeding!”

  The timbre of her exclamation was so shrill and so unexpectedly emitted that everyone was instantly roused to attention. Mama declared that if this continued for much longer, she would most certainly be dead before the day had ended. Lizzy urged Papa to call for the doctor, which the latter obeyed with more than usual alacrity, looking for, I suspect, any excuse to leave the noisy and crowded room. Mrs. Hill set down the pitcher she’d been holding, which was now empty and which, by the looks of it, she had no intention of refilling, lest an event of considerable import should occur in her absence. (She sent Sarah to refill it instead.) And Aunt Philips, continuing to gaze with enchanted horror at the cut under my right eye, insisted on holding my hand, which none of my weak protests could discourage, while Mama stood on the other side of the settee and proceeded to console me in her own way.

  “Well,” she said, “I never took you for a wild one, Mary. But if you have indeed protected Jane from being hurt, as she informs us is the case, then that is very well done, and you deserve to be commended for your act of bravery.”

  I might have failed to grasp the full meaning of Mama’s words and taken them merely for the praise deserved had it not been for some comments exchanged shortly afterwards. We had been waiting some time for the arrival of the doctor, and I’d dropped off into a light and uneasy sleep. No one had thought to draw the curtains, and the sun remained full in my eyes, so that, tired as I was, I remained conscious of everyone’s speech and movements—Lydia and Kitty sulking watchfully in their corner; Mrs. Hill imbibing the water Sarah had brought, in large, noisy gulps. Over my recumbent body, Mama and Aunt Philips began to speak in hushed tones.

  “Sister,” Aunt Philips whispered, “it is lucky for you that Mary was hurt and not Jane.”

  Mama was quick to agree: “Of course I shall have a very strong word with Kitty later and tell her to have a care what she throws at her sisters, but it is very lucky. Very lucky indeed.”

  “Can you imagine if Jane were to suffer such an injury?” Aunt Philips’s enthusiasm at the prospect was, I thought, poorly disguised, even by her standards.

  “Though she is my child,” Mama sighed, “it is just as well that this happened to Mary and not to the others. To be sure, they are none of them as beautiful as Jane, but the difference between Mary and her sisters is too marked for anyone to ignore.”

  “It pains me, too, sister, that all my nieces have not turned out as fine as the eldest, but perhaps Mary has other qualities which will make up for her outward deficiencies.” Then she added, with considerably less conviction, “We must hope this is the case.”

  “It is unfortunate,” my mother replied, “that these other qualities you mention are seldom admired by the opposite sex and, when appreciated, are taken note of only after a pleasantness of figure and complexion has already been ascertained. No, I wonder sometimes that Mary is so plain and what, in consequence, will become of her!”

  The doctor arrived at this moment. He was a tall, thin man with gray whiskers and eyes of such pale blue they appeared almost white. Kneeling beside me, he removed his glasses with the delicacy of one accustomed to undertaking all tasks in an unhurried manner. I wish, among the jumble of insignificant details I have retained over the years, that I could remember his name, for I haven’t forgotten the gentleness and civility with which he addressed me and which was, at the time, as alien to me as it was welcome. The room became very quiet and still. As he leaned over me, a part of his beard brushed my arm, and its softness reminded me of the gentle swish of a cat’s tail touching the back of one’s hand. He asked me if I was in pain and studied the wound.

  “Looks worse than it is,” he said slowly, considering the cut from all angles before unfolding a cloth from his bag. “You must be more careful when you play with your sisters, especially outside, where it is easy to have an accident.” He asked for water, and Sarah was forced once again to leave the room. Upon her return, he commenced with cleaning and dressing the cut. As the injury did not, in his opinion, warrant any further attention, he was soon finished with his task and rose to leave. Fastening his bag, he turned to me and said, “I’m afraid, my dear, that it is very easy for cuts on one’s face to scar, and this may leave a lasting impression. The skin, unfortunately, is very delicate there, which is why you must be more careful in future.”

  And raising his voice by the smallest discernible volume possible, he added, “Take care not to scratch the cut when it is healing, as doing so will increase the likelihood of a scar.”

  Recalling Mama and Aunt Philips’s earlier conversation, I considered for a moment before answering. “But will it make any difference?” I asked. “I mean, will it make any difference whether it scars or not on my face, as opposed to…Jane’s?” Mama reddened and opened her mouth to protest, but our guest spoke first.

  He looked at me strangely. “Of course it will, my dear,” he said. “Of course it will. What a shame it would be for a pretty face like yours to scar, so you must do all you can not to touch or pick at the wound when it itches, eh?”

  He patted my hand and, nodding slightly to the whole room, departed. No sooner did he leave than Mama began to chide me for making such foolish comments in front of the doctor, which she was certain would be imparted to all the patients he visited before the day was out. Aunt Philips then announced that I was tired and should be sent directly to bed. My father, the only other individual in the room besides my mother and aunt who was permitted to express an opinion, considered this a very good idea, and Jane and Lizzy were tasked with escorting me upstairs, in case I should have a fainting spell on the steps.

  * * *

  —

  AFTER I CHANGED into a clean nightgown, Lizzy called me over to the dressing table. “I’ll brush your hair before you go to bed,” she said. I thanked her and fixed my gaze on the chipped corner of a lacquer jewelry box while her fingers removed the pins in my hair.

  Jane glided over and kissed the top of my head from behind. “You were very brave today, Mary,” she said, smiling. Our eyes met in the glass, and I looked from her to Lizzy, then back again. They began discus
sing a pair of embroidered slippers belonging to Jane that had gone missing from her room. Lizzy suggested that Kitty had a habit of borrowing things without permission, which made Jane laugh and explain that even if Kitty had taken her slippers, they could be of no use to her, being too big for her feet. When Jane smiled, her large, round eyes became sparkling crescent moons, and her mouth an instrument perfectly formed for the cheerful, elegant mirth she released into the world. In taking her beauty for granted, I had never thought to admire it. Now I found myself enraptured by the elements which, together, created a face that many would willingly think of in the vague and absent moments before falling asleep.

  “There,” Lizzy said. “All done.” She set the brush on the table.

  I stared at myself in the mirror and registered all the parts of my face, which in functionality at least seemed to be in good order. There was nothing that could be considered misshapen, and yet the sum total was such that I, as the proprietor of my own nose and mouth and cheekbones, could not look with satisfaction upon any part of my countenance. There surfaced in me a sense of wonderment that one could arrive in this world so wholly unadorned by even the slightest advantage of beauty. I felt racked with emotion, yet my eyes betrayed nothing and returned my gaze like two dark stones, hard and unfeeling. Though still a child, I already saw, unfolding before me, a life lived ingratiatingly in the shadows, of sitting like an old gargoyle at dinner tables while, some few feet away, the living laughed and exchanged stories. I would have no stories to tell. No estates to run. No children to speak of. I would not be blessed with the holy rites of matrimony and would thus be compelled to live my years beholden to the loveliness of one or two older sisters, who would, by their charity, ensure that I always had food to eat and a roof over my head.

  Thoughts can be as potent as wishes. That night, I dreamed I had returned alone to the woods outside Longbourn. Between the ghostly birches, there flickered a pale light, which moved towards me until it took the shape of a human figure. I saw at once who it was, having studied her likeness many times before, and dropped to my knees and bowed my head. She wore a blue cloak, the cloth of which was so fine it floated like a dewy mist over her white body. A ring of stars encircled her head, and when she moved, the stars quivered in their orb. Though her face was engulfed in light, I perceived that she smiled. She extended her hand to me, and, clasping it in my own, I pressed my mouth to her skin, which felt against my lips as cool and pure as the water of a fresh spring and which stilled the rapid beating of my heart. I felt I could never want for anything again, yet when she spoke, she asked what I desired most in the world. I raised my eyes to meet her gaze. But no sooner did I look upon her face than the light which she exuded overwhelmed me, and I was forced to turn away else I be struck blind.

  “I wish,” I said in a weak voice, “that I weren’t so plain.”

  “Is that all, Mary?” she asked. “More than anything else, you desire to be beautiful?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I wish I could be as beautiful as Jane, or even more beautiful. If I could, I would be the loveliest girl in Meryton.”

  “If that is what you really want, then you have only to wake up,” she said, turning to leave, “and your wish will be granted.” Trembling, I gathered the ends of her cloak and kissed them until the threads slipped out of my hands. Though she moved slowly, it wasn’t long before I lost sight of her, and she became again a single point of light. As I pressed my hand to the place where she had stood, a welcome darkness enfolded me, and for many hours afterwards, I was lost to all sensation of pain or happiness in a dreamless sleep.

  It was late morning when I awoke. At once, I remembered the Holy Virgin’s promise and bolted to the dressing table. With the tips of my fingers, I traced the cut under my eye, which was still tender and red. I observed myself in the mirror for as long as it took to realize there had been no change; in its absence remained only the humiliation of having expected, in defiance of all logic and reason, that some miraculous transformation could have taken place during the night.

  Just then, the door opened and Jane came bursting through with a spray of heather in her hands. Tossing aside her bouquet, she made immediately for the window and stood full in the sun with her arms outstretched, as if to embrace the very air she breathed. She cried, addressing the window, “Oh, Mary, it’s a wonderful morning. The weather hasn’t been like this for ages.” When I didn’t answer, she looked over her shoulder at me. Though she was then but thirteen, it would be only a short time before the full potential of her slender figure was realized. And as for her face…From my seat across the room, I observed the delicate lines of her nose, the soft blush that entered her cheeks, as unobtrusive as the first touch of color in spring buds, the pleasing shape of her mouth as she asked how I’d slept. With new eyes, I marveled at the head of wondrous, golden hair washed in morning light which seemed, in that moment, an extension of the sun itself and of all things touched by heaven and by God that are put on this earth to be worshipped.

  “Mary,” Jane said, taking my hand as my vision blurred. “What is it? Are you crying?”

  I shrugged and covered my eyes. Then, turning away from the mirror, I hung my head and wept.

  Because I am plain, others have always assumed in me a disinterest to the opposite sex, to romance, and, accordingly, to marriage. But I will write here, as if with my own life’s blood, that I have indeed loved. I have loved not once or twice but three times, which is three times more than anyone would believe of me.

  In none of these episodes did I believe my love to be any the less true or good because my energies failed to attain that happy conclusion which has often blessed others. I loved in earnest all three men. I loved also with the kind of desperation that afflicts only the very plain and the very poor, who, in knowing they have nothing to give beyond the shirt off their backs and their own bodies, will do everything to compensate for the absence of wealth and beauty.

  So to anyone who has ever doubted that the sour little creature sitting on the sidelines of the ball isn’t capable of the same purity of love as her two esteemed sisters, I say you do not know her or her heart. Though she looks upon the lines of skipping couples with indifference, I can tell you she does not feel it. She, too, wonders what it would be like to stand up for every dance with a partner, to run wantonly through a red sea of regimentals shouting “Denny!” or “Andrew!” at the top of her lungs while laughing and spilling punch onto the front of her dress. She has often imagined this scene in the tired but happy hours after a ball has ended and the entire family has gathered in the drawing room to discuss the dances, the fashions, and how well or ill such and such of their acquaintance looked. While these conversations took place, it became common for her to lose herself in her imaginings and to rewrite, in her mind, the events of that evening, had she been singled out by the richest man in the room or had two officers come to blows for the privilege of dancing a cotillion with her.

  I am no longer this lonely girl-child. But if I shut my eyes and concentrate, I can see her as vividly as though I am next to her. It is the ballroom at Netherfield Park when the owner of that estate, Mr. Bingley, threw a party to announce his settlement there. I see her hard eyes, her tight mouth. I hear the voice inside her head repeating how lucky she is that she won’t have to risk spraining an ankle by dancing like other young ladies. Among the bobbing and weaving faces, she spots Kitty dancing the Boulangère with a breathless, corpulent officer who has two boils on his chin. Both talk excitedly, and she wonders what they could possibly have in common to discuss with so much animation. At the opposite end of the room, she perceives Lydia pressed up against the wall with a cup of wine in one hand and a fan in the other, encircled by half a dozen young officers. Their epaulettes shimmer from so much laughing and bowing. They are all too well trained to touch her, but they enclose her nonetheless like hungry wolves around a single, bleating lamb. Lydia throws her head back, and the
feathers in her hair tremble. She is wearing white, and my former self sneers and rolls her eyes. Her hands shuffle the pages of Handel’s Water Music she has brought, busying herself with nothing. In another world, another life, a lieutenant might have enfolded her in his black cloak and whispered saucy inanities into her ear. Above the violins, she listens attentively to his voice. Look at how others stare, Mary. They are staring at you because you are the most beautiful woman in the room. A man could go mad just from gazing at you. At this point, her father arrives, handing her a plate of fruit and encouraging her to enjoy herself a little more and not to look so miserable all the time. She accepts the plate in silence, her ears burning.

  I’d realized early on in life that most people did not look at me for any longer than they needed to. This was especially true of the apprentice milliner in Meryton who, every time we engaged in conversation, would pay most deliberate and unwavering attention to my left ear, addressing his professional opinions regarding the latest fabrics and hosiery to that tender and useful organ, while I respectfully watched his averted gaze. I could not blame him or any of the countless others who preferred the view of a doornail to a face that held all the attraction of a dandelion in a garden of roses. It is human nature to recoil from or, at the very least, to ignore what is unpleasant and inconvenient in the world.

  Over time, my plainness had become a second, unshakable religion. I have seen its effect on my family and acquaintances far too long for it to be disputed. To those who’d argue that I am no mind reader, I’d answer that as happy as I might have been to remain perfectly ignorant of my deficiencies, these patterns of behavior were simply too frequent and too familiar an occurrence for even the most willingly oblivious of persons to overlook.