Author- 4give4get
Rated- T
Pairing- Mary BennetxOC
Disclaimer- I own nothing.
Serena- Hi, plox read. Maybe not your average Jane Austen fic.
Chapter One…
It is a fact universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
Dire, dire want, according to Mary Bennet.
Yes, you have heard me correctly—Mary Bennet. I have said Mary Bennet (and do mean Mary Bennet), for she is the heroine this time around. Not Jane, whose beauty is conclusively beyond all comparison? Not Elizabeth, whose charm is indisputably beyond measure? No. Their stories have been told.
You may wonder, will Mary Bennet's story be anything like that of her elder sisters? And I shall allow this much of foreshadowing: No. Mary Bennet has little to compare within herself with the disposition of Jane and Elizabeth. Jane was a favored child amongst her mother, for she was the most beautiful. Elizabeth had been the favored child amongst her father, for she understood him best. Mrs. Bennet still doted upon the two younger ones, Kitty and Lydia and favored them very well, certainly.
Which left plain, obscure, demure, far-too-serious, Mary. Mary was the least beautiful of all four of her sisters. She did not even possess the remarkable traits Lizzy possessed, to be so charming that everyone in her company seldom noticed she wasn't beautiful.
What is Mary's disposition then? Smart. Perhaps even pompous some of the time (that much she will allow). Grave. She knew from a very early age that she did not carry many agreeable traits and would likely never marry. As a girl, she tried. Perhaps if she could not be beautiful or charming then she could learn to play the pianoforte with practice. And practice she did. Not that it did her very much good at all.
She could remember the face of her elder sister, Elizabeth as she finished her second piece at Mr. Bingley's ball at Netherfield. She felt embarrassed for her. Mary did not feel self-conscious after that, but only angry. How dare Elizabeth pity her! She did not want any such thing as pity! Mary knew deep inside that she, herself was very much the stronger of the two at heart and could endure more dislike and even hate. It was true. Could Elizabeth really step through her whole life and have everyone she meets have the edges of their mouths all turn downward in distaste as soon as she entered the room?
Mary did not think so. And Mary had been living exactly as such for all eighteen years of her life. So what made Elizabeth think she needed her pity? Honestly, the more friendless and alone she became, the more Mary found she could respect herself.
I am not as everyone else, she simply thought, and gave up on the whole idea of ever fitting into the society in which she had been born. Mary read often. There was not a very large library at Longbourn, so she knew surprisingly little of literature than one might imagine for someone who loved to read as she did. She read and reread Gulliver's Travels, the copy having been Mr. Bennet's from his childhood.
Mary dreamed of her own imaginary travels. I should like very much to go to Japan and India. And even the make-believe places like Laputa and the Country of the Houyhnhnms and Lilliput where there are the six-inch tall people. Everywhere, I suppose. Of course, these feelings were never shared.
She knew Mr. Bennet would have rather preferred Lizzy read and kept the copy (her being is favorite daughter) but Mary had never seen her sister so much as open the cover page to the book she so treasured. Her father said she may keep the book, and she hugged him over and over. Carefully, in her best hand, Mary signed her name, "Mary Bennet" under where her father had signed his own name years earlier.
Mary received other books for various birthday and Christmas gifts. Indeed, she seldom received a single gift that was not a book, though that pleased her fine. Mary did not dwell on ribbons or lace like most other girls. (As much as Mrs. Bennet had attempted to spark an interest in her third daughter for such things by way of gifts.)
Her own personal library grew. The Mysteries of Udolpho. The Italian. By Ann Radcliff.She kept a book containing each and every play written by Shakespeare, although she read them only to question their veracity. The books she received as gifts from her family consisted mostly of novels (which she did not enjoy any less than any other genre, mind.) Camilla. Evelina. Cecilia. All by Fanny Burney. Or The Sorrows of a Young Werther, by Goethe.
But when Mary did leave the confinement of her own yard to accompany her sisters or mother to Meryton, she spent what little pocket money she had on titles of a different sort. She saved for three months to purchase A Critique of Pure Reason, by Immanuel Kant, the German philosopher.
Mary found it fascinating. It questioned the very existence of the world, of the universe and of God, Himself. How many other books did such? She kept it hidden beneath her bed, knowing the possession of such a book is not to be expected for a young lady, and all that young ladies were supposed to be.
There was a time when Mary was polishing the vase her mother kept on the landing of the staircase on a simple end table when she heard a shriek coming from her chamber. Carefully, for our heroine, Mary never allows her famous (or perhaps even infamous) calm demeanor to fade away, she set down the vase and hurried in to her room. She turned the doorknob distinctly and peered inside.
"Mrs. Hall," she said, grave as ever, "What ever is the matter?"
Mrs. Hall, the housekeeper stood from her kneeled position and waved a book in Mary's face, "Miss! This book has all sorts of evil mentioned! Now, I don't mind all of this complex blabber on space and time (a ruddy waste of time if you ask me), but no God? This is un-Christian, and heathen and you had better believe I am showing this directly to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet!"
"Oh, Mrs. Hall!" Mary cried, trying to pry A Critique of Pure Reason from her hands, "Kant only states that the propositions of God are valuable to our moral interest, that if people believe in such a thing they'll do good. He does not criticize religion, but only looks at it from a scientific point of view."
"Heathen!" was all the woman could spurt, "Un-Christian and I will not stand for it!"
"If you do not like what you have read it is because you have a narrow mind and cannot allow to accept new ideas," Mary told her calmly, "You (and others like you) disgust me above all others and I would appreciate it greatly if you never spoke another word to me as long as I live. I shall never remember you, nor this house, nor this family with happiness, and if I should by some stroke of luck receive the chance to leave it all behind forever, I shall take it with both hands and never look back. Of that, madam, you may be sure."
Mary's statement had such an impact on the woman that her fingers loosened enough on the book and it was pulled from her grasp. Mary turned on her heel and disappeared down the stairs. She proceeded to hide the book in the cellar and luckily, Mrs. Hall was so disturbed by her that she never spoke another word to her. She would not even look in her direction. If she came within the same vicinity as Mary, she would stiffen up immediately and act as though she were walking on eggshells. And she would never, never allow to be alone in a room with her. And the entire family remained ignorant to any change in the household at Longbourn.
Mary Bennet continued to watch her family with a keen, precise eye. Jane fell in love with Bingley. And then he broke her heart upon his removal of Netherfield. Lizzy went through more than one trying matter herself, although both elder girls considered their third sister far too stupid to notice anything. The two younger girls just flirted with officers all day. Mr. Bennet attended his work as always and Mrs. Bennet continued being her usual self while vehemently objecting to Lizzy's refusing of Mr. Collin's proposal of marriage, and how the Lucas's were plotting to have Longbourn as soon as Mr. Bennet had died. Mary sat in her chamber for much of these days, reading and thinking and silently listening to all that was taking place.
According to her, Jane was so weak that Mary was ashamed to call her any sister of hers. Weak was one thing Mary was not. Jane was innocent and ignorant and had the perception equal to that of a five-year-old child's. Is Jane really so kind and unassuming, or is she just plain stupid? She wondered. To always assume the worst, is not correct, but one must know that there truly are bad, evil, malicious people in the world. Jane did not. Also, having her heart broken so easily by Bingley. He is just one person! She may love him, but does she really disrespect herself so little to wallow like such and not see that the world does not revolve around him (not mentioning that is would likely even be a better place with his absence.)?
Therefore, Jane was ignorant and weak.
Lizzy was rather self-absorbed. Not selfish, but she honestly didn't notice much besides her own feelings and Jane's. Didn't she know how many other people there were in the world? And that her every action influenced them all, not just Jane and herself? A narrow margin of thinking, Mary could forgive however, and managed not to be so annoyed at Lizzy.
Kitty and Lydia came the closest to ever loving Mary. The three girls had an odd sort of understanding. Their ability not to judge each other led them to have an actual existing friendship. Mary did not approve of their vanity or their boldness, but never judged them as everyone else did. Kitty and Lydia did not care for her graveness or her strange taste in books, but they never judged her as everyone else did. And a friendship (however loose it may be) did take place.
For as long as Mary could remember, she had always wanted to attention of her father. He was a smart, sensible man, practical in all ways. He was not fickle, he was not stupid, and he had a fairly open mind. He was the one person in the Bennet family Mary found she could respect. He would have little to nothing to do with Mary, however. Mary quickly mended her ways and made sure she never cared what another soul thought of her again. If she did, it would just hurt too much. No one liked Mary Bennet. Why should her father be any different? So, in the beginning she may have pined for his affection. Well, that is no more.
The only person Mary disliked more than Jane was her mother, Mrs. Bennet. She was talkative and about as shallow as her teacup. She saw no importance in things that actually mattered and made big fusses of little things. Mary saw her as annoying and useless.
As soon as Lydia left for Brighton, Kitty began confiding in Mary more, seeing as her closest sister and friend had left. The two girls were close, but still had their differences. Mary listened to her speak of officers and how envious she was of Lydia, while Kitty listened to her tell of her opinions and ideas. Kitty let Mary read each letter from Lydia, and they both replied together. (Mary wrote, for she had the neater hand.)
"You must write saying that she must describe in more detail what it is to have an affair with someone," Kitty complained, as she paced back and forth through Mary's chamber. Mary calmly sat at her writing desk, penning a letter to their sister in Brighton.
"You mean her and Wickham?" Mary questioned, lifting the pen off of the paper.
"Of course I mean Wickham!" Kitty exclaimed, throwing her hands up, "Who else would she have an affair with?"
"It is not that, Kitty," she responded, turning to face her on her chair, "What is between her and Wickham would not quite be considered an affair. An affair is having a sexual relationship with someone in which you are not married to."
"And she is not married to him," Kitty pointed out.
"But she has not done such things with him, an acknowledgement of affection is hardly a sexual relationship," Mary countered, "But I know what you meant, I shall ask her for a more descript recollection, sister."
"Ask if she will elope with him!" Kitty enthused.
"I shall; though we'd best advise that she doesn't, for she may not be happy with him."
"Why ever not?"
"She is young," Mary sighed, beginning to write again, "Barely sixteen. At sixteen years old, you do not know it but you are very, very young. And while you are still considered young you must allow that a great amount of change in your disposition will occur before you are a full adult and therefore tying yourself to someone who fit your former disposition will be unfortunate and miserable. Lydia has yet to grow up before she should consider marrying."
"You may write that, but she will not listen. I dare say she won't even bother reading it, but just skip on to the next part," Kitty advised, "She does not listen to anyone, much less when you preach at her."
"I do not preach at her," Mary corrected, "I only give advice. And you are right—she will not read it. Whether or not she takes my advice is up to her. I shall write it for Lydia's sake, however. At least I can say that I did my part."
And Lydia obviously did not read Mary's advice. Or if she did, she didn't take it to heart. News of Lydia's elopement was all over Hertfordshire so quickly it was even rather astonishing.
"What was she thinking?" asked Mary to Kitty in the privacy of her chamber, "That no one would notice until she wrote to the family after her marriage when she would be able to sign it, "Mrs. Wickham"? That is so very thoughtless of her!"
"Lydia has always been thoughtless," Kitty told her, "And she shall be fine. She may have ruined the chances of us getting married now, since we did not make wealthy suitors before this happened as our elder sisters did, nor will we not be considered virtuous by anyone else who comes along. But I do not worry for her."
"Nor do I," Mary admitted, "Lydia is far stronger than Lizzy or Jane. She would do well on her own if she must."
"She's only vain."
"And you are not?"
News of the patched up marriage soon reached them and that Lydia would soon be visiting. Mary was happy to hear of this. After all, who did care if it was an undesirable match and it did ruin the family? Her sister's stupidity was not her own. Thankfully. But Mary still loved Lydia far more than Lizzy or Jane. Since they judged her, she did the same. It was only her two younger sisters she had any sort of feelings for.
After she and Wickham had left for his commission in the North, Bingley and Darcy came around. Mary only observed as both her elder sisters became engaged to be married. She offered them both her congratulations, but honestly cared little. Bingley was a stupid man. He was only kind because he had not the brain to be anything otherwise. Mary had no overall opinion of him.
Darcy was indifferent. Mary did not find his mind inferior, but did find his character and tone of voice to be false. Perhaps around Lizzy this was different. Mary still did not care much for him.
"…and Mary may use the library at Netherfield," Jane was saying, Mary suddenly paying attention at the mention of her name, "Would you like that?"
"I should enjoy that very much, dear sister," Mary said calmly, "I am sure there must be a wide selection and I will spend many enjoyable hours there."
There. Mary said one of the first pleasing things in her life. You see, Mary did not care to please. People could like her, or dislike her, it was all the same. She would not bend herself to their liking. But suddenly this came out of her mouth. It shocked her and made her feel uncomfortable to speak anymore for the rest of the week.
Soon both Lizzy and Jane were married and Lizzy had been taken all the way to Pemberly by Darcy. The house felt oddly empty, with only two daughters remaining. Within the month came Mary's nineteenth birthday. Mrs. Bennet to be reminded of the day by Kitty and Mary's favorite dish was prepared for supper. Her father presented her his gift of a book with a satin, ebony ribbon tied around it. Mary pulled the ribbon out of its silky bow and studied the book's cover.
The Castle of Otranto, by Horace Walpole. She kissed and thanked Mr. Bennet for the lovely gift and eagerly set to flipping through the pages. From what she could tell it was a gothic novel. Kitty gave her a lacy petticoat that she'd sewn herself, and Mary kissed and thanked her for that as well.
Later that night, she sat up reading her newest book and admiring the ribbon. Mary found most ribbons (in their frilly lacy way) horribly ugly and overdone. But not this one. Somehow, this ribbon appeared elegant and simple and a shiny color of black, and nor did she mind its futility. She tied it around her neck each morning from then on.
The following day, letters came to Longbourn with her name on them. All four letters, to be exact, had "Miss Mary Bennet" written in three different hands. Mary opened the first one. It was signed E. Darcy. Lizzy wished her a happy birthday and that she missed her beyond words. (This, Mary did not believe for an instant.) Underneath the letter was a small package which unwrapped revealed a one-ounce vial of perfume.
Mary had never worn perfume in her life and nor did she ever plan to do so. The vial was a pretty pale pink colored glass and a carved in pretty swirls and patterns. The stopper stuck in the top was glass also (though not pink) and quite beautifully artistic as well, taking the shape of a rose.
Lifting it to her nose, she realized it was rose-scented. No, Mary would not wear anything like it, but was more than content to keep it in her chamber for the vial was so beautiful and delicate-looking.
The second letter was signed J. Bingley. It's contents were pretty much the same as its predecessor. Although, at the end it did mention something about how delightful their new house was as compared to Netherfield. Within her package, Mary realized how much better Jane knew her than Elizabeth. In the package was a tiny book of poetry, no bigger than her hand. Mary liked its smallness.
On the first page:
"And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time" by William Blake.
And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England's pleasant pastures seen!
And did the Countenance Divine ,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold:
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green & pleasant Land.
The other two letters were from her aunt and uncle Gardiner and Mr. and Mrs. Collins. Mary wondered what little much other people had to do if they had time to just write such letters to a girl they only pretended not to dislike.
On a day a fortnight later, to escape Mrs. Bennet Mary sat in the cellar and read that infamous copy of A Critique of Pure Reason. Kitty was currently visiting Pemberly (Mary had not been invited, not that she expected such a thing as an invitation, and nor would she accept one.) and the only one Mrs. Bennet had to rant to was Mary. Well, not if she couldn't find her—Mary was hiding.
She heard footsteps on the cellar stairs and froze in fear of it being her mother discovering her hiding place. The cellar was not large and had literally no corner or nook to duck into and hide further. It was Mrs. Hall. She clomped her way down into the cellar and saw the one person she feared most (Mary Bennet) and her face went even paler when she realized the book she held in her hands.
"Mrs. Bennet!" the woman cried out, turning to run back up the stairs, "Oh! Mrs. Bennet! This you ought to see!"
Mrs. Bennet hurried in a way that she could down into the cellar as Mrs. Hall was quickly retreating. Mary had nowhere to run.
"Mary!" she exclaimed, "Now what are you doing down here, I've been looking for you—what's this book you've got?"
"A book," she said, purposely being vague.
Mrs. Bennet wrenched it from her hands and she knew it all over. Mrs. Hall joined them again.
"I saw her reading that book before, madam! Heathen and un-Christian!" she screeched, pointing an accusatory finger at Mary, "Unnatural girl!"
Her voice pierced Mary's ears. She would not have been surprised if the woman were to burst a vein in her forehead from the amount of noise she was making. Nor would Mary be sorry for it, either. The time called for Mary to make a rare statement (she talked little) and only one thing came to her at the moment.
"Won't you SHUT UP?" she snapped at Mrs. Hall, who did no such thing and was still screaming at the top of her lungs about the devil.
Bloody Mrs. Hall, she thought.
Mrs. Bennet in the meantime was reading the book for herself and her face was quickly turning an unhealthy shade of purple. With such a racket going on, Mr. Bennet naturally came down into the cellar also to see what was happening in his house.
"Mr. Bennet!" Mrs. Bennet shoved the open book in his face upon his appearance, "Look at what your daughter has been reading! Just look at it!"
He took the book and read. His lips moved along with the words. He looked at Mary, standing before them with her fists clenched… and laughed.
"I care not what she reads or what she becomes," he said, handing the book back to his wife, "Mary is a mistake."
"I cannot allow this!" Mrs. Bennet joined in with Mrs. Hall, "I know not where you acquired this book, but you had better believe that this is the last you shall see of it!"
Mary's whole body trembled in anger, in hate, and in scorn, "No it shall not be, madam!" she said forcefully, attempting in vain to control her anger, "It is my book!"
Her mother had no reply but muttered that she would burn it the first chance she got and turned and walked away. Mary felt herself just become contorted with rage. And she stalked after Mrs. Bennet.
"No! No, madam, no! It is mine and I have paid for it! If you cannot stand what I read, do not speak to me! I do not care! And fine! You may burn the book, you may lock me away forever, but you shall not suppress me, madam." Mary knew she was far out of control now, "You cannot control how or what I think. I will always have my opinions about me, even if you burn every single book I own! You, madam, are afraid of different things because you are weak, and I therefore shall never make the mistake of calling you my mother again!"
"Why, you ungrateful little…" Mrs. Bennet never finished her sentence because she could not think of words to call the girl who stood before her. Mary had never shouted before. It came as a shock to all. Mrs. Bennet's face was indescribable and the silence that settled throughout the house in the instant after Mary finished her speech bore into her eardrums louder than any noise.
Mrs. Bennet angrily marched directly past Mary and tossed the book into the hearth. Mary watched as A Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant went up into flames and slowly turned to nothing but ash. And she somehow felt that the idea of Pure Reason itself was burning. Mary was more alone in the world than ever before.
End Chapter
Serena- That was just a bit of a prologue. Now the real story begins. I just had to tell a quick version of Pride and Prejudice through Mary's P.O.V. Also, every book that I mentioned in this first chapter was (and is) a real book written by real people, and I'd actually recommend you read some of them.
Please review.