First off, I'd like to thank everyone for the much needed support and appreciation given to Extended Courtesy. Yes, I know you were probably expecting a sequel to it, but this is a separate story with the same Mary Bennet at its centre, under very different circumstances. It is much more dramatic in tone and well, it's quite different. I will write another story concerning Mary and Captain Denny, no worries, but I hope you'll like this one as well, as I've tried to delve into Mary's tormented psyche.
Thanks for reading!
Having rained earlier that evening, the sky was of a greyish colour, dotted with blue and yellow, but stubbornly opaque. The light of dawn could not pervade the thick curtain that had been drawn over the world with such obstinacy.
She was startled awake more out of natural inertia. She might have heard the birds chirping in her sleep or perhaps a branch falling into the lake with a splash, but the sounds were muffled and cut off from where she was sitting, under the giant beech, whose canopy had kept her out of sight the entire evening.
Now, come morning, her back was aching from having sat motionlessly on the wooden bench for so long. She felt the early wetness of nature all around her, the moistness of wood and leaves, the scent of dew and silence. But there was something fleeting about this wetness. It would dry up as soon as she moved from that place.
She had fallen asleep almost seamlessly. Originally, she'd only intended to keep away from the starch afternoon heat and rest a while from the constant movement and noise about her. She had not counted on being so well hidden from the general sight that, not only would she not be found out by anyone searching, but that she would not be considered missing to begin with.
Her sisters had not noticed anything amiss, indeed. She was sharing a bedroom with Kitty, but the girl had returned so late to her bed and so very tired that she had not even guessed Mary was not beside her or that she would not be there in the morning.
As it happened, no one had believed her gone. And no one would yet if she managed to cross the grounds quickly enough and retire to her room in time.
The great dilemma with being seen or unseen is that one cannot be both at the same time. She would either have to bravely come forward or sneak into the house like common a thief. The latter was such a cowardly, lowly thing to do that she could barely stand it.
One would wonder why she would have to resort to such ridiculous measures to begin with. Couldn't she have come outright and explain what had happened?
She would have, in any other context, but the very circumstances induced her not to.
The wedding had been a lavish event, but for all its luxury and elegance, it had not been devoid of its picturesqueness. As a just and good-natured gentleman, Mr. Darcy had had to oblige not only the vicinity of Pemberley, but the little town of Lambton as well. Despite paying his dues to the many formal guests from London and the surrounding parts of Derbyshire, he could not willingly forego the necessity of offering the lower classes an example of his charity. It was what was required of a newly married man, especially one with a wife of such modest origins.
Having said that, he had given two balls; one in the Pemberley ballroom, another in the exquisite gardens of his late mother, gardens which extended to the orchards and the maze-park. A large tent had been set up outside and many of the local or foreign tradesmen and well-to-do lawyers or physicians of the county had spent delightful hours in each other's company, boasting their wives and children, parading themselves about the gardens, taking in the air and chinking glasses in honour of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.
As the wedding had prolonged into a dismally sultry summer afternoon, the Pemberley guests had slowly and courageously stepped out into the gardens and mingled with the less gentlemanly crowd, losing grasp of what was as stake, little by little, due to the harrowing heat that drove even the most pernicious of them to at least timidly step out on the terrace and condemn the weather in the most graceful words they could find.
The Bennet girls had been caught in the maelstrom with everyone else and Kitty in particular, had been so taken with one Mr. Travers, lawyer by occupation, that she had quite lost her head and even danced with him on the lawn, along with a country maiden and a vicar's son. The young Miss Lucas had tried to join her but she had only succeeded in spilling her cup of punch on the sleeves of her dress and had had to go cry about it to every person willing to hear. Sir Lucas had finally silenced her when he had found her a partner in Mrs. Phyllips' nephew.
It was strange events such as this that effaced the lines of good breeding and revealed the tormented and reckless humanity in everyone, that was bound to doom one reputation or another come the following day. It was a due form of revenge for the shame that the party would feel in the aftermath. Someone would have to be the scapegoat.
Mary Bennet knew she had not been the only one to have fallen asleep in the park and she also knew that plenty of young men of very obscure origins might be lying about in her vicinity.
In a sudden rush of panic, she almost fell as she tried to lift herself from the bench and landed with her knees in the wet grass.
Her gown was already dishevelled and torn at the hem, looking more frumpy than modest, as she had originally intended and now, with the stains on the front and the wetness soaking her back, it looked positively strange.
Placing one hand on the wood for support, she tried, without avail, to get up.
Exhaustion and confusion had taken over her mind, to the point where she was not quite sure whether she was still dreaming. Only the cold fear of having lost herself completely kept her from falling in a daze.
Wiping the sweat and grease from her forehead, she regained her balance and took a few steps out of the beech's shade.
The air was just as dense and stuffy as during the previous afternoon and only the sudden chill of sunrise gave her the impression that it was the beginning of a new day.
The fear that had been coursing through her ever since she woke up only intensified when she saw the wide expanse of green in front of her, dotted here and there with chairs, blankets, trays, candlesticks and the occasional dog sleeping on his back or a pair of ominous legs coming out of some shrubbery.
It was enough to make her throat dry.
Stumbling forward, she carried on in her usual pace, glancing here and there warily, dreading that someone would suddenly appear out of nowhere, grab her by the elbow and drag her inside, yelling and chiding her for her lack of thought.
Most of all, she feared her mother and Mr. Darcy. The former for what she would do to her at home, the latter for what opinion he would have of her for the remaining days of her stay. She dearly wanted to impress him by all means, especially since her pride could not accept being connected with the memory of Lydia.
Yet, she was almost amazed at how quickly this same pride vanished at the thought of being discovered. Normally, she would not deign to indulge even the idea of her behaving inappropriately, but the evidence was too much against her now to try and assume that same air of detachment and insolence she would apply when spurned by her family.
But this humbleness could not be a lasting feeling, nor could it be encouraged by her conscience, for she was quite innocent. Yet, the burden weighed just as heavy on her as she dragged the train of her dress across the grounds.
Conflict was beginning to stir in her mind. She could not be condemned for stepping outside as half of the guests had done so quite willingly, but she might be charged with having gone off on her own into the park, without taking a female chaperone or at least some elderly company. She might have excused herself saying she had retired to find a quiet place to read as was her habit, but she had not run off with her book, she had nothing in her possession at the moment to prove so, not even a shawl. She had simply departed, empty-handed, leaving the premises almost like an eloper, seeking refuge from the clamour of her sister's wedding. Even if her case were presented so, she would be seen as monstrously selfish and punished accordingly.
Was there really no escape from a painful confrontation then?
It was the pettiest thing, to fear their harsh rebuttal when she had, all her life, exerted herself to become a model of propriety. It was half-ironic, too.
Every day she made such efforts to keep her nature in check and her reason strong, to bear with her mother and sisters and accept their fancies in detriment of her own, every day she prayed that the merciful Lord would forgive her for her overbearing vanity, that he would not condemn her wrong-doings, that he would not punish her secret jealousies. She was trying so very hard to stifle all that was vicious in her and yet the very thing was clinging to her, dragging her down in the mud, marking her for all to see, whereas every other young lady of her acquaintance would simply float above it, her feet never touching the ground, her eyes never gazing down. If their eyes were to meet, however, she'd find Mary a miserable, begrudging creature.
She groaned in disgust. Why had she left the party so abruptly? Why had she detached herself so completely? Why had she abandoned everything for the sake of…of nothing?
As she turned a corner into one of the orchards, her heart positively stopped as she saw a black figure leaning against the trunk of an apple tree.
It seemed that a confrontation would take place sooner than expected.
Mary stopped in her step and stood, looking at the stranger, in a nearly paralyzed state.
The young man, for it was an older, rough and scruffy-looking farmer's boy, by the state of his clothes, his swollen hands and a brazen pipe hanging from his limp lip, was contemplating the early view and scratching his head in listlessness, wondering if he should go back to Lambton or stay and sleep there until noon.
He was so very pleased to find himself in such a fine place, that he welcomed the morning chill with renewed happiness. He was parched and he craved to have a large jug of cold milk, but he knew he could find some fruit on the journey home to last him a while.
So contrasting was his state of mind to Mary's, that, upon casting his eye on her, he at first smiled jovially, thinking it might be some girl from the village.
Mary, whose feet seemed rooted to the spot, moved only one hand feebly towards the other, as if she were silently clapping. It was only that she couldn't keep one hand clasped over the other. She was trembling.
Seeing as she was not moving, the young man thought she might be waiting for him to approach her and, in his heightened delight, believing she was leading him on, decided to indulge her and made a couple of skewered steps towards her.
Mary's panic was now so powerful that it threatened to overwhelm her. It was like a snowball, growing and growing as it glided down the slope into perdition, until it collapsed onto itself.
She had rarely if ever been alone with a man in public and the countless consequences of being caught with him at that moment ran through her head so fast that she felt just as immobilised as before.
If she ran, she feared he would chase her. If she simply stood there, he would reach her. If she screamed, others would come and find her. If she remained quiet, she would be lost.
There was no way out.
"Fancy such a fine mornin' as this! Why, you look dolesome, sweet'un! 'ave you slept badly? Or was it bad company?" the young man burst out cheerfully, sauntering towards her with a bold smirk, dropping his pipe in his pocket.
She supposed she did look a very curious sight, but she could not help it. Nor could she manage to say anything that would remedy the situation.
"I s'pose t'was the latter," he added bravely, curling one strong arm around her waist and pulling her slightly towards him.
Mary placed one hand in front of him and almost touched his breast, as he stood looking down at her with a mixture of satisfaction and curiosity.
Her hand clenched into a fist and shrunk from him, but he caught it with his other hand.
"You're bad…bad company," Mary managed to utter hoarsely, her face flushed.
"You don't look it, if I be," he grinned, noticing her fluster.
He smelt of tobacco and boiled water and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. But her eyes had darkened despite her respite.
"I'm only…" she mumbled wearily, "let me go. How, how dare you?"
She wondered at her own slackened reaction. It was as if time had slowed down and her thoughts had broken off into small pieces she could not put back together. No matter how much she tried to make sense of it, the pieces were floating away and she was becoming increasingly more desperate. It was as if right there and then she was not really Mary Bennet after all, she was anyone and anything, and he was stronger than anyone in the world and had every right to impose himself on her and she would only later, much later, remember who she was and what she was supposed to do.
"Oh, I see, fussy one, you're all alike," he commented, whistling to himself.
Mary yanked her hand free from his and tried to release herself from his grip, but she only managed to step on his feet and elbow him in the ribs.
From afar, it looked as if he was trying to snatch an object from her hands and that she was struggling to keep it from him.
He now had her waist circled with both arms and was panting into the nook of her shoulders as her back pressed into his front.
"Lord, you're a might cat, y'know? Ye scratched me well. Never had such a scratch."
The sweat trickled down her forehead once more, the dress clung to her body like a fine layer of dust and his breath fell as heavy as a hammer and as dull as the pealing of bells. Church bells. She heard them in the distance.
"Just let me go!" she yelled suddenly, in a bout of unprecedented hysteria.
She had become painfully aware of herself and everything about her.
She had given such a shriek that he was quite frightened at first and let her go immediately.
Her face was red and furious.
"Come, come now…don't, don't be upset," he stammered, staring at her wildly.
"You, you are a horrible man! You ruddy cheat! You insolent fool! Presuming, simply presuming that I would just - How awful!" she kept yelling senselessly, as if someone had finally released her. The unaccounted relief she felt in raising her voice was akin to taking a long drink from the clear waters of a pristine river. She felt invigorated.
"I am not upset! Why should I be upset? I have done nothing, nothing, nothing! You are the one who wronged – you are coming with me and telling them! You are taking the blame! I do not have to reason with anyone!"
Her forehead was burning. She was sure she was quite feverish. It was the beginning of an illness. She knew she was talking like a mad woman and that she was only lowering herself more, but a strange and terrifying pleasure overcame her. Well, they ought to look down on her, she thought, they ought to be unfair, they ought to be merciless and she ought to be the victim. She would never marry, after all. And that was as good as dead to everyone, wasn't it? She was nearly dead already. Dead! What an idea!
The young man was beginning to notice the young woman before him was quite sickly. And she spoke as if she were of a different kind altogether, the kind that never walked about in the morning. But the raw madness tumbling from her lips seemed to say otherwise.
"Please, I meantersay, please calm yourself, missus," he said sheepishly, placing one wavering hand over her shoulder. He still kept a smile at the corner of his lips.
"I aren't comin' with you, I'll be goin', if ye want me to leave. But who's accusin' you?" he asked, watching her burning eyes move back and forth between him and her as if she were trying to convince herself nothing had happened after all.
She flinched when she felt his hand tighten around her shoulder.
"Everyone will be accusing me," she spat proudly. "Everyone. They are all tired of me. They will think the worst of me."
The young man frowned in astonishment. The girl before him looked so young, so innocent and so silly in her stubbornness that he doubted anyone would find any real fault with her, except perhaps with an exceeding amount of haughtiness. But there was something sickening about her fixed stare.
"I know them won't, they'd never. Look at you. I see goodness," he said softly, feeling a pang inside his chest.
"What? What is it that you mean, you silly, simple man? Speak louder. You might be God's precious lamb but you've no right to see anything in me! You've no right to touch me! No right."
"Might not," he replied gruffly. "Might not."
Mary leaned forward precariously and he was quick to catch her as she almost fell into his embrace. The previous day's excitement, the sleepless night, the anxiety of the morning discovery, the shock and anger at being thus treated by a stranger, the sudden awareness that she was being ridiculous and childish and, above all, the painful, maddening knowledge that she was jealous once again, very, very jealous of Lizzy and Jane, of her own sisters, made her lose her balance and the great turmoil inside her found a strange peak in her convulsively grasping the young man's shirt, almost as if she intended to tear him apart.
What was it that Jane had told her yesterday? She had told her that she was going to live with her and Charles for a while. Kitty would stay with Lizzy. They might visit the Gardiners in London, sometime.
It was all so dreadful. Such charity. Such forced charity.
"What's got ye so afraid?" the man asked, feeling her tremble in his arms.
"Their superiority! Their moral superiority!" she shrieked into his shoulder. "They are all above me."
He gripped the sides of her lean face with both his hands and made her look at him, being worried she still might have the burning look in her eyes.
But Mary hungrily pressed her dry lips over his and screwed her eyes shut without hesitation. He tried to move his lips to kiss her back but she gripped the collars of his shirt, her knuckles pressing into his neck, and seemed to say she was not going to allow him to do that. Clumsily, even monstrously, she kept her lips on his until she felt them going numb from pushing them against his so much. She could almost feel his lip breaking and the smooth dent of his front teeth coming out. Still she would not relent.
When his arms finally pushed her away, she swayed back almost in a daze, dancing shakily in a circle.
There were no tears in her eyes, but she looked as if she had cried.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, ye came too fast, but let me–" he began, trying to take her in his arms again, but she avoided him like the plague.
"No. No, no. That was enough. I…I am lost! Finally lost!" she bellowed, as if she had heard an echo from afar.
The young man looked even more confused than before. It was only a kiss, he thought, not even a real kiss. Why was she saying she was lost? What could she have possibly done?
It was the enthrallment of a first exchange, she thought. The empty excitement of touch, the pleasure of perdition. A spinster thought much of a forced kiss. But what if the spinster was the one who had forced the kiss on him? Then, yes, she might as well be lost.
A sudden cold strength overcame her and her mind seemed to finally settle on an unwavering decision.
She had all the reasons to leave and she could by no means return to the house in her current state.
Her steps were small, but sure.
The young man watched her mystified as she walked away from him, almost in a trance.
Many years later he would still find this occurrence something like an eruption of fantasy into his life. He would never find such compulsive madness in any other living woman because he would marry immediately and he would never meet anyone alike. But he would not think of fruit or cold milk on his way home. In fact, he would not even rush home. He would stay there in a drunken stupor and watch the birds rise and fall into the air until he felt his neck twist in pain.
Mary had not even dared look back. It was of no consequence anymore and she would suffer more if she looked back at him, at Pemberley, at the gardens.
As a result, she kept her head down and tried as best to find her path through the small forest on the very outskirts of the estate. There was a cobbled country road meandering in the distance through the green pastures and she intended to reach it as soon as possible.
Lambton was not very far away. She would find a chaise there.
She might stop on the way and fall down and cry and tear her hair out in misery. She might even turn back and beg for forgiveness.
But at the moment, she was walking with a flattered pride. She was not running away out of fear or cowardice, she was running away because she was now lost, had been lost by the temptation of a man. And she was a spinster no more.