Mary-Ann's POV
Chapter 4: What is Wrong with my Sister?
They think I do not notice, or pretend that I do not. I pretend that I do not either.
Everything is off: tilted, slanted, askew, altered. Everything is wrong with her and things are odd with them. There are whispers and looks. Glances and tensed faces. Rustlings late into the night when everyone should be sleeping, squeaks of the floorboards and someone pacing.
While Fanny and I still share a bed, we no longer tell secrets, no longer snuggle together for warmth. She is an immovable lump on the side closest to the wall. I hardly think she sleeps while there. How can someone sleep if they never stir, adjust and pull the covers over?
Now Mother tucks us in again at night, though before it had been years. Though I am the younger, when she pulls the covers over me and strokes my forehead it feels perfunctory, a token, an empty gesture, to keep me from noticing how her hands continue to soothe Fanny, linger on her shoulder, gently stroke her hair.
Mother is careful now about everything involving Fanny. Any complaint about Fanny is murmured softly. She does Fanny's chores for her if Fanny does not do them. She never insists she do them, only suggests. She walks slowly up to her, always makes sure to say something to announce her presence, to not startle her.
Still, Fanny startles, Fanny shudders, Fanny's eyes widen too far over nothing: an unknown sound, a man's voice below in father's law office, a creaking door.
The maid and Aunt Gardiner never help her dress anymore. It is only my mother, humming, singing as she helps Fanny with each layer, each button.
Father tries his best to look at her, but I see his eyes start blinking over much, see him turn away. He looks at me more, as if considering. He squeezes Mother's shoulder if they should pass in the hall, pats me gently on the head, but when he sees Fanny he seems uncertain whether to run from her or embrace her and thus does neither. She does not seem to notice.
Everything is wrong since before we left the Netherfield Ball. Then it just seemed as if something was wrong with Fanny, but like a spreading illness it began to infect others, first Mother, then Father, yet it has not grown from then, but I wonder when it shall.
I know Aunt Gardiner and our maid know that something is wrong, but they never ask, at least I do not think they have. We all silently agree not to ask. Nothing has changed with them except they seem to take more care with Fanny, Mother and Father.
Yesterday, Mother asked, "Mary-Ann, should you like to marry Mr. Phillips?"
I said, "Yes."
We had discussed him Before. Before, she never asked me if I wanted to marry him. Before, she avoided the question. Before, she gave me excuses to avoid me declaring anything. Before, she said I was too young to even think of having a suitor. Before, she said I had time. Before, she said I should have a couple of seasons. Before, she said it is not good to marry simply because a man shows you some attention. Before, she said he was beneath me in consequence but not so beneath me that it was impossible. Before, she said he needed to become an attorney, too, show he could take care of me, obtain better quarters, prove himself with Father, Before they would consider him.
What has changed?
Before, I was certain I wished to marry him but it was a more distant event. Before, when we were in the same room together and he sought me out, I had some assurance that my parents might let me flirt and dance with him but THERE WERE LIMITS, NO PROPOSALS WOULD BE ENTERTAINED, THEY WOULD PROTECT ME FROM MAKING A MISTAKE.
Before, I admired the cut of his breaches (quite tight), the style of his hair, the way he looked at me. Before, I imagined a life of many dances with him before I should don a married cap. Before, the time when everything might change stretched endlessly (or at least in an uncertain manner and duration). Before, I knew not when my name would stop being Miss Mary-Ann.
Now I am different. I still like gossip and entertainment but I have been allowed neither, know not to ask to go anywhere.
Today, I understand that after the workday concludes Mr. Phillips will be calling on me. This has never been allowed Before.
Before, I was too young though out to receive a gentleman caller just for me. He might call on my whole family. We would all be there.
Today, Mother says it will just be him and me. Today, I am scared. Today, I am uncertain.
Mother did not ask me if I wanted this. Mother told me instead, hurried off before I could ask anything. Mother does not want to hear the things that would have mattered to her Before.
Before, she would have been tense that Father was allowing such a thing, her face pinched with worry. Yet now she seems more relaxed, more reassured.
Why is she more relaxed, more reassured that today he will ask?
I have half a mind to say, "No."
Though Mr. Phillips has been steady to his purpose in courting me, he has never spoken of love. I do not know what love is, but I know I find him handsome, like the way he is always looking at me. Not like the the old men with their old wives whose eyes linger on my bosoms. I know he admires them, but he looks me in the eye, takes me all in, tells me that I look uncommonly pretty.
I care about him, have known him since I can remember. When I was younger, he was merely kind to me, but I saw him as an adult, much like any other. Yet as I changed and grew, his glance changed likewise.
He has always been most proper, yet when we dance he holds my hands a bit too tight, gives a slight squeeze before he releases them. I had been curious as to whether he could always rein himself in if we courted for two years or more.
I think I wanted to see him lose a bit of his self control, declare his passionate regard for me, sneak me someplace private and steal a kiss or two.
I knew why he did not. Father employs him, father could cast him out, father could tell him I was forever denied him. He is prudent, even if somewhat run away with his feelings. Yet if I understand Mother correctly, I will be wed to him soon.
All the reasons Mother gave me before have not changed. I wish to scream: WHAT HAS CHANGED? WHAT IS THE BIG SECRET? WHY DO YOU ACT LIKE I AM THE ONE WHO MUST MARRY. IT SHOULD BE FANNY! NOT ME!
However, I have resolved I will have him. It is exciting to think I will be the first to wed, that I will be Mrs. Phillips, that I will be fit to supervise my older sister. Perhaps Mother will spend more time with me as we prepare for the day. The day will quickly come. It looms. The bans will be read and then some morning soon the familiar vows will be for me.
It is different than I imagine. I thought he would plead, I would plead.
It seems odd that I shall not have my own home, that I shall be with Mrs. Phillips, his mother, too. I thought when we married she would be gone. She was so sickly last year, frail, pale, delicate.
However, she has always been kind to me. She knows on which side of her bread is buttered, that her son wants to marry me, that she must defer to his wishes.
I wonder if there will be talk, given how Before they freely shared how I had more time. Yet, everyone knows that he has wanted to marry me nearly since my come out. It cannot come as too much of a surprise.
I am resolved to accept because something most serious must lie beneath the change. I trust that they must have their reasons. I trust that there is a reason they do not wish me to know.
I will be safe when married to Mr. Phillips. That must be their intention.
I wonder if he knows? No, they would not tell him. He will not question if they are now willing to let me wed him. He will not look a gift horse in the mouth to see from its teeth how old it is, what its health is. He will take what is offered before they change their minds.
I wonder how he will propose? It is all mostly a formality. My father must be telling him today that he has reconsidered, has no real reason to oppose the match.
What if he does not call? What if he senses something is wrong? What if he thinks I am the damaged goods?
Surely that is the problem with my sister. What else could it be? The only question is how damaged and by whom.
If it was someone who could marry her, they would all be celebrating a match. I would not be living in the midst of a funeral procession for an unknown corpse.
He who did it, whatever the "it" is, must either be far above her, far below her, or unsuitable in some other way.
Did my parents forbid him from marrying her? Surely if that was the case she would have confided in me, asked me to help her arrange an elopement. Sneaking to Scotland sounds terribly romantic, even if I have never known anyone who did so.
I have no thought that she loves anyone. She is hiding.
I hear in my head words I heard whispered before regarding Miss Greene, a few days before she disappeared. The Greenes said she was traveling to Bath to take care of her sick aunt. After she left the words became louder.
Miss Greene never returned and a few months later the Greenes were gone as well. Things had been odd after the words started. Before, the younger sister of Miss Greene, Cecilia, was my particular friend. Yet when the words started, my mother kept me away from her. I was allowed to greet her at church, if we saw one another in a shop, but nevermore did she come to my home or me to hers.
My mother was not like some. She still exchanged a few words with the Greenes, did not cross the street to avoid them, yet neither was she friendly like before. She was never more than an arm's length away from me when the Greenes were present. She told my father she did not want her daughters painted with the same brush. I did not understand then.
Yet those words that were whispered about Miss Greene now roll about in my head: ruined, compromised, wanton, forward, cunning, caught. Is anyone now saying such about my sister? I have hardly been out of the house since the Netherfield Ball.
I do not want to be like Miss Greene or her sister Cecilia. I would rather be Mrs. Phillips.
I hear knocking at the door, it must be he. I look up from my drawing. I was sketching a cat I think, though the lines upon the page are too jagged and thick. Why was I drawing a cat? What am I doing here in this room with my mother?
The door opens. It is my father and Mr. Phillips. His face is a bit flushed. He rubs his hands on his breeches. I close up my drawing pad and set it to the side. My parents leave and now he is alone with me. We have never been alone before.
"Miss Mary-Ann, your father . . . that is . . . I wish . . . all I have wanted for so long . . . will you be my bride?"
My mouth is dry. It is real. It is now. I cannot speak so I nod.
It is enough. He seats himself beside me, picks up my limp hands from upon my lap, holds them in his own and pulls them to his lips.
Why am I not wearing gloves? Why am I here alone with a man? Did I really just agree, with just a lowering of my chin?
I must have as his face looms and I close my eyes against seeing his eyes too large and too near, feel myself being kissed, a certain astonishing wetness against my closed teeth. But then it is gone, over, and I open my eyes to see him sitting beside me.
I hear the creak of the door and then my parents are beside us, congratulating us, inviting him for dinner, making plans while I say nothing, astonished, confused, bemused, bewildered. No one wants to wait, the reading of the bans will commence at once.
No one asks how I feel, what I want. They are swept away with their planning as I sit, Fanny sits. It is a cacophony of sound ringing in my ears. I can only make out some of the words. I ought to be happy, I ought to be telling them what I want to eat at our wedding breakfast, be asking for a new gown.
That night in our bed, Fanny turns from her place against the wall and speaks.
"Mr. Phillips is a kind man, a safe man. It is best, it is right. You shall be unstained."
I do not know how to answer her, so I say nothing, just draw her into my arms. We both cry. I do not know what we are crying over, but afterwards it seems better. She does not turn away, we sleep closer.
She is still not herself the next day, but she occasionally says a word or two. It is better, it is right, but when she tries to smile, only her lips and cheeks move. There is no crinkle near her eyes. I love my sister, my mother, my father, but cannot wait to get away from here, to where life moves as it should.