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April 1812:
Mary Bennet of Longbourn had lived nearly one and twenty years in the world. The middle child of five, she was the only one unmarried. While she did not think highly either of men or of matrimony, her continuing unwed status had become a point of great concern for her mother. It was especially so since Catherine's recent marriage to a Major Edward Banks, an estimable young man that would bring much needed sense to Catherine.
Mary's parents were the basis for her poor opinion of matrimony. Entirely unsuited in tastes, temperament and information, Mrs Bennet fancied herself nervous when unhappy and Mr Bennet took solace in his books and the sarcastic sort of amusement that only a very silly wife could engender. The improprieties in her father's behaviour to her mother had always given Mary pain, but Mrs Bennet seemed entirely insensible to Mr Bennet's studied insolence; fancying that he merely loved to vex her. And, if she were to be honest, Mary was glad that her father's sarcasm was not focused on her.
Neither parent had ever favoured Mary Bennet, quiet, studious and plain – Mr Bennet preferring the clever Elizabeth above all and Mrs Bennet doting on the wild Lydia and the beautiful Jane. However, one could suppose that with all four sisters married and scattered across the land the Bennets' attentions would now fall upon Mary Bennet.
Suppositions are often inaccurate, and never more so in the case of the Bennet family. Mr Bennet was just as inattentive as he had ever been – his negligent attitude towards his daughters had suffered a brief attempt at repair after the disgrace of Lydia's elopement and patched-up wedding, but he had soon reverted to form. Her mother occasionally managed to exhort Mary into attendance at Meryton's assemblies, but appeared to have resigned herself to the fact that she would not live to see all five girls married off.
"Oh, what will become of you, Mary?" that worthy bewailed now, entering the drawing room in a flurry of lace cap and ribbons. "When your dear father and I are dead, and Mr and Mrs Collins" – she laced these names with frightful venom – "are come to Longbourn, what will you do? A young woman unmarried and with no prospects for marriage even! You will have to live off the charity of your sisters! 'Tis a dreadful fate – not to be borne."
Mary had too much forbearance to roll her eyes – she had been the recipient of such bemoaning since she entered Meryton society at fifteen. "Mother; do not fret yourself for I bear the prospect of spinsterhood very well," she said calmly, looking at the letter that had arrived for her just this morning. She traced the seal with her thumb. "I am invited to spend the summer at Pemberley – there I will make enquiries into the office of governess or companion through Mr Darcy's London connexions. By those means I will be able to support myself, and you and Father can rest easily in the knowledge that all your children are provided for in one way or another."
"A governess?" Mrs Bennet repeated. "To be at the beck and call of ill-mannered children, to have no comfortable home of your own. Can you be sensible of your decision, my dear?"
"Quite sensible," Mary replied, thinking with mild pleasure of the coming visit to Pemberley. She had never been there, but had heard that the grounds were beautiful and the pianoforte and library were magnificent. Mr and Mrs Darcy were people of much information, and with such uncongenial company at home, Mary could hardly suppose that being a governess or companion would be much worse. True; she would have no home of her own, but she would be possessed of a small competency upon her mother's passing, and in the meantime could live very satisfactorily on a governess's salary.
"Well, I do declare!" Mrs Bennet exclaimed. "You take great delight in vexing me; you have no compassion for my poor nerves. They trouble me monstrously."
Mary softened her tone, for she genuinely loved her mother, although she possessed little understanding of or sympathy for her mother's nervous habits. "I do not mean to distress you, Mother, but you just said that I have no prospects for matrimony. I have little money and have always been plain and ill suited to society. Therefore, taking up the office of governess or companion are the only respectable options for me."
"Yes, yes," Mrs Bennet murmured, twisting her handkerchief fretfully. "But you will be so far removed from me … Even London is such a long way from here."
A rare mischievous impulse took hold of Mary Bennet and she replied archly; "Confess, Mother, the distance would be of little consequence if I removed there to join a husband. Are those not your sentiments?"
"Well!" Mrs Bennet gasped once more. "That was a remark not unlike one dear Lizzy would have made, and you misunderstand me vastly, my dear. I miss all my children monstrously, especially dear sweet Lydia – so far away in the North. It has been over two years since I have seen her and your father is so provoking. He says he will not travel to see Mr and Mrs Wickham – that they must come to us. But how can they manage to do so? Dear Mr Wickham's salary as a soldier does not extend to such luxuries as travelling across the country to visit family."
Much diverted by her lamentations for her favourite daughter, Mrs Bennet's focus was quickly removed from Mary Bennet and that young lady listened to her mother with half an ear while making plans for her future competence. There was a tolerable satisfaction in her reflections – she possessed little fondness for childish prattle but thought that she might teach older ones rather well or be a good companion to a respectable dowager. She had become a little more sensible with age, and now regretted that her manner in the past had prevented her being able to guide her younger sisters as they should have been.
Lydia, wild and irresponsible, had dismissed Mary's efforts as sermonising and Catherine, weak-willed and pettish, had always followed where Lydia led. The scandal of Lydia's elopement was still much talked of by the denizens of Meryton, and had surprised Catherine out of continuing to imitate her youngest sister. Although she would always be guided by her strong sensibilities, thanks to her spending much time with the Darcys and the Bingleys, Catherine had improved so much in the time since that Major Banks had become thoroughly bewitched by her, culminating in their marriage just three months ago.
"My dear; you have attended to scarcely one word I have said!" Mrs Bennet complained in a wounded tone. "I do declare, Mary; you can be most inconsiderate at times; a heartless, unfeeling girl."
Mary watched as her mother, deeply offended, burst out of the room then picked up her sister Elizabeth's letter with a sigh and read it once more.
My dear Mary,
I find that I have missed you greatly since I married and removed, and would dearly love to see you again. Therefore, Fitzwilliam and I would be privileged to have you come to Pemberley for the summer months if our dear Mama is willing to release you.
Their mother, Mary reflected, would not miss her very much. And she continued reading.
You must come, dear; the library over which you have doubtless heard Papa exclaim is even more improved, the grounds are magnificent and we have a very handsome pianoforte to tempt you. Two years are too long to go without seeing all of my dear sisters.
Even Lydia? Lydia's husband and Elizabeth's openly despised each other – the reasons for which even careless Lydia had never disclosed. After Lydia's removal to the North she had corresponded little and the much longed for invitation to Newcastle for their mother and Catherine had never eventuated. Elizabeth had always been far closer to Jane, with Lydia preferring Catherine, so this sudden desire for Mary's company struck her as being motivated by mere sentiment.
And Meryton society has never appealed to you, so do come. The length of my paper forces me to bid adieu and to close with another appeal to your sisterly feelings. Fitzwilliam will arrange a coach and four to collect you at your command – and our best bedchamber will be set aside for you.
With much love,
Your sister, Lizzy.
Elizabeth had no need to resort to bribery to assure herself of Mary's agreement to the request. Her company had always been the most agreeable to Mary of any of her family, although rarely offered by Elizabeth and never accepted by Mary – to be able to spend several months with Elizabeth without the other sisters being in the way was a notion most tolerable.
"Oh! Mr Bennet!" Mary heard Mrs Bennet cry as she sallied forth into her husband's sanctuary. "You will never guess what that monstrous child has said to me!"
Mary was now resolved – to Pemberley she would go.
AUSTEN-AUSTEN-AUSTEN
The decision made was much bewailed by Mrs Bennet and Mr Bennet said little excepting; "I am not frightened at the notion of your going away – you were never quite as silly as Lydia and Kitty, and Pemberley is a far different place to Brighton. There are no soldiers for you to flirt with there, my dear."
"I have never flirted and have no wish to do so, Father," Mary returned sharply, feeling greatly offended. Did he know her so little as to think that she admired redcoats? She appreciated their patriotism, the nobility of serving one's country, but to seek out their company, to laugh at their jokes, and to compare their countenances and figures as Lydia and Catherine had so often done? The very idea was distasteful to Mary Bennet. "Make yourself easy," she added more softly. "Even if I were as silly as my younger sisters, I will be much in the company of Elizabeth and Mr Darcy – they would keep me respectable even if I wished to act otherwise."
"You are right, Mary – I should know better," her father startled her now by saying. "I wish you well and please give my love to little Lizzy and my compliments to Mr Darcy when you write next."
"I shall, and thank you, Father," Mary replied, surprised by the rare affectionate tone that Mr Bennet employed. "I am pleased to have your consent."
"Oh! To be sure; I could have refused Lizzy's pleading but Mr Darcy also entreated me and that is a man to whom I can refuse nothing – I owe him so much."
Fitzwilliam Darcy had been the means of finding the eloped Wickham and Lydia, and their Uncle Gardiner had provided a sufficient dowry to persuade the unworthy young man to marry that stupid girl, thereby rescuing her from the consequences of her folly. Wickham would have been a fool to take Lydia for a farthing less than at least five thousand pounds – a sum far beyond the reach of Mr Bennet or the Philipses. The Gardiners had at the time been their wealthiest connexions, engaged respectably in trade in London, but such a sum must have caused great distress.
"And so, Mary, you intend to advertise while you are at Pemberley?" Mr Bennet said now, surprising Mary once again with the attention. "You are quite a sensible, intelligent young woman – you will make a good governess or companion. I have sometimes wished that we had had a governess for you girls, but if one does not wish to learn, learn they will not – and my money was better employed elsewhere. You taught yourself well, are becoming a woman of much information and some understanding – you will always be respected wherever you go for that. It is a painful thing to have no respect for one's partner in life – your husband will be spared that should you ever choose to marry."
Mary did not pretend to misunderstand what he meant. He had married a very pretty young woman knowing very little of her character or her understanding, and had found himself with a wife he could not respect or even like. Happiness in marriage was entirely a matter of chance, but Mary had witnessed the deep affection and respect shown by Jane and Mr Bingley, and by her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, and knew that she could no longer countenance the idea of marrying a man she neither respected nor liked simply to secure herself.
Charlotte Lucas had sought marriage to Mary's cousin, Mr Collins, for such a reason. Elizabeth had always thought of Charlotte with respect and admiration, but this act had sunk her temporarily in Elizabeth's opinion. However, as Charlotte Collins was Elizabeth's most intimate friend, Mary had never felt comfortable in voicing her initial opinion that, at seven and twenty and with no other prospects, Charlotte had acted very prudently. Elizabeth was such a romantic, stating frequently that only the deepest love would induce her to marry. Mary could only hope that Elizabeth truly respected her chosen partner, whom she had taken particular delight in maligning for the first months of their acquaintance.
Her father sighed, and Mary made an effort to recall herself to the present. "But you will need something to read while you travel, Mary," he said now. "Since Jane and little Lizzy left, you are the only sensible person besides myself in this house. I encourage you to make use of this library – even a sensible person can turn to silliness for lack of aught better to think of. And there is no time like the present; you must have your small collection memorised by now."
"Thank you, Father," Mary replied. The bookroom was not large but was well thought out and showed her father's learned and eclectic tastes. "If I may borrow some books to read tonight, I will importune you no further." The bookroom had always been Mr Bennet's sanctuary from his silly wife and even sillier youngest children, and Mary had never felt the wish to disturb that sanctuary.
"Of course." Mr Bennet turned back to his glass of wine and his book, dismissing Mary with a small smile.
Before her father could change his mind, Mary turned to the task of choosing several of her favourite books for the night. She would, however, need more than a few books for her journey to Pemberley. Mr Darcy had originally offered to collect Mary from Longbourn on his way back from London with Miss Darcy, but Elizabeth knew Mary would not be comfortable with a three-day journey with a stranger and an intimidating brother that was nearly a stranger. Therefore, he would instead arrange for two of his maids to come to Longbourn to accompany her into Derbyshire, but Mary was of a taciturn, unsocial disposition and preferred to pass long hours alone with her books. Only her strict observance of propriety had prevented her refusing Mr Darcy's kind offer.
'The Vicar of Wakefield', 'The Elegant Extracts', and for more serious reading Fordyce's 'Sermons to Young Women'. While Mary had learned to not lecture people, she read Dr Fordyce's sermons regularly – although outmoded, they interested her greatly.
"Mary," Mr Bennet said abruptly, causing her to startle, "why do you not keep Fordyce in your bookroom?"
"Really, Father?" Mary stared up at him. Books were infinitely precious to Mr Bennet, and he rarely even loaned them out, and never had she known him to give one away.
"Really," her father confirmed. "I do not know the last time I opened those volumes and books should be read. Please take them."
"I … Thank you, Father," Mary replied and set aside her selection for the new few days. She was debating over 'The Children of the Abbey', which she had never read, when her mother burst back into the bookroom.
"Mr Bennet! Such dreadful news!" the lady exclaimed now. "You will never believe it. I could scarcely believe it myself when Lady Lucas informed me."
"If I will never believe it, there is little to be gained from sharing it with me," Mr Bennet replied coolly, not even looking up from his book.
After seven and twenty years of marriage, Mrs Bennet had learned to ignore her husband's insolence. "Mrs Collins has come out of her lying-in, and she has a boy. A boy, Mr Bennet! He will forever keep this house from our line, and when we are gone dear Mary will have no home."
"That was a likely prospect in any case, my dear," Mr Bennet reminded her dryly. "Mr Collins is to inherit after I am gone, and there is little likelihood that we will produce an heir before my passing."
"Is this meant to comfort me?" Mrs Bennet cried peevishly then, receiving no response from her husband, turned to Mary. "If you would just exert yourself, you could marry tolerably well. You are not hideously deformed and if you would walk more in the sunshine, your colour would improve a vast deal. You have very pretty eyes and exercise would brighten them. You are not handsome but you could make more effort."
Mary had never been fond of physical exertion, and her thin face, sallow skin and dull eyes bore that out. But she had listened to her mother's bemoaning her lack of handsome features for many years, and it no longer had the power to hurt her. "I prefer to enhance my accomplishments than to feed my vanity," she replied now – her former unfounded pride in her accomplishments had been vanity, but she had not yet grown wise enough to realise it. "Beauty is fleeting but information is forever. I should much rather be able to hold a rational discussion than be feted as the beauty of the county." Not for worlds would she have expressed the ironic amusement she felt at her mother's sudden preference for exercise – she who had so frequently criticised Elizabeth for her preference for long walks.
Her final book chosen, she turned back to her father, trying not to listen to her mother's continuing complaints regarding Mary's many deficiencies as a daughter. "I have chosen my books, Father, and will now leave you." The despair in her father's eyes prompted her to add; "Mother; I would be much obliged for your help in beginning to make over my gowns for my stay at Pemberley. You know I possess no taste for such things, and Elizabeth and Mr Darcy mean to hold a ball while I am at Pemberley."
Distracted from her feeble-minded moanings, Mrs Bennet immediately brightened. "But of course, my love! Mr Bennet; you will excuse me, I trust – dear Mary has far greater need of me than you do."
"Then you must go, my lady," Mr Bennet replied. As Mrs Bennet left his sanctuary, he favoured Mary with an ironic smile and raised his eyebrows. "Off you go, my dear, and try to ignore your own good sense for another few months. July will see you gone to Pemberley and you can then be rational once more."