Summary: Follow Mary Bennet in her quest to discover her true self, as unlikely friendships are formed, tentative romances occur, and attempts at matchmaking (or insufferable meddling) run wild. Also featuring Kitty, Georgiana Darcy and Susan Price. Crossover with Mansfield Park.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Jane Austen's genius. Only this plot is mine, along with a few original characters. Also, in this chapter, a reference to Northanger Abbey.
I wanted to post this chapter as soon as I was done with it, so here it is; hope you'll like it. And I'll post the replies to the reviews this week!
It was not without worry that Elizabeth first learnt of Kitty's engagement. For a young and impressionable person, to form an attachment so quickly, without seeking anyone's counsel, seemed hasty and ill-considered; but Elizabeth's alarms were soon soothed. The Darcys' friends conveyed the intelligence that Dr Campbell was a respected, upstanding citizen in his community; that he was well-liked by his neighbours; and that his income, though not as large as Charles Bingley's or Fitzwilliam Darcy's, was sufficient to provide for Kitty's needs. The young lady in question, when challenged, readily acknowledged that she would live comfortably enough, though without extravagance; and this was proof to her older sister that no greed, no mercenary motives had entered her heart.
Furthermore, Kitty's own accounts of her interactions with Dr Campbell invariably cast him in a very favourable light. Elizabeth had to admit that he had shown himself to be a very gentle, sensible man, proper in his attentions to Kitty; and to do the latter justice, Elizabeth must concede that her exuberance, though not abated, was now tempered enough as to show promise that in the future, she would not want for propriety ever again.
Kitty had been allowed to write to her fiancé; Elizabeth was amused to watch her sister, once a very indifferent correspondent, now sitting down with concentration, her quill alternatively stilling and moving liberally across the paper, as she described how empty her days seemed without him and pictured with unlimited pleasure how delightful life as Mrs Campbell would be. His replies, though more concise and to the point, were not devoid of feeling; his words gave her patience and fortitude, and since Henry's judgments were shared with the rest of the family, Elizabeth witnessed first-hand how her sister matured. Her initial misgivings gave way to relief; she was optimistic that in spite of Kitty's youth, this marriage would be the making of her sister. With a kind, sensible man to guide her; with the assurance that in the country, Mrs Campbell would get the opportunity to shine, removed from the more brilliant society of London, Kitty had a genuine chance of happiness.
This was something of a novelty to Elizabeth. She and Jane had had their fair share of trials and tribulations to marry the men they loved; and of Lydia's own path to a disappointing union, the less said the better. Kitty's courtship, with no great obstacles, no long months of doubts and anxiety, was much wondered at; and while the circumstances could not compare, her honesty forced her to admit that Kitty's own nature had played a part in this happy resolution. She might not have needed to fight ill-will, prejudices, meddlers and slanders; but she had not complicated matters either. She had communicated clearly with Dr Campbell, had encouraged him enough to provoke him into proposing; she had not been plagued with self-doubt; her mixture of common sense and spontaneity, matched with Dr Campbell's even temper, had kept the whole affair simple; both had been forthright and upfront in their intentions.
Her rejoicing in her sister's engagement could not blind her to Georgiana's quiet despondency. She did not know what had transpired between her and Mr Harding; Georgiana could only say that, though he had been the perfect picture of amiability, she had not wished to further the acquaintance. Elizabeth had given her all the guarantees that she was free to reject Mr Harding's attentions if they were unwelcome; however, she could not help but question Georgiana's indifference to Mr Harding. Did her sadness only stem from the pain of hurting him, or was she regretting her rejection?
Between Kitty's panegyrics on Dr Campbell, she tried to get her observations Georgiana and Mr Harding.
"I thought at first that her shyness alone prevented her from encouraging him," Kitty said; "but in the last days before we left, Georgiana acted distant, cold even. I do not know what to think anymore. Perhaps she never did care for him at all."
Elizabeth kept silent. Kitty talked with renewed confidence:
"If Georgiana has not agreed to a courtship, it means that she has doubts. Why should we discuss it further? If she is not sure of him the way I am sure of dear Henry, she ought not marry him," she settled with the assurance of a young lady safely engaged who was now fancying herself an expert in all matters of the heart.
There was wisdom in these words, Elizabeth reflected. Although she was still concerned by Georgiana, she found satisfaction in Kitty, who was showing great promise; she was also beginning to wonder if her past judgments on her younger sisters had not been too definite. The consequences of Lydia's folly had been felt very deeply, were still being felt; Jane's generosity, her own, was being applied to. Lydia had not learnt from her mistakes. The birth of her baby boy was used to request that her richer sisters subvention the Wickhams' lifestyle. Of Lydia Elizabeth could expect nothing; but she now acknowledged that she had often felt acute mortification on behalf of Kitty and Mary, who though awkward and sometimes lacking propriety, had never deserved to be lumped in with Lydia as "the silliest girls in England."
Mary was the object of some remorse. Mary, whose letters seemed to console Georgiana; Mary, who appeared to be a supportive friend, when her own sister had never suspected that she could do anything else beyond offering sanctimonious soliloquies! Had the potential been there all along, and she had not seen it? Too busy trying to rein in their mother and younger sisters' boisterousness had she and Jane overlooked Mary's desire to carve a path for herself?
If they had neglected Mary, there would be ways to right this wrong. In a few weeks' time, they would leave London. Kitty was to be married from Longbourn; Mary would be asked to attend the ceremony, and Jane would offer her to stay first at Netherfield, then to travel to London with Bingley and her. Kitty had reaped the benefits from her sisters' marriages; it was only fair that Mary should get the opportunity to get away from the confined society of Longbourn too. Indeed, Jane was feeling wretched; had she but suspected that Mary would rather not stay at home, she would have concocted the scheme earlier.
Mary did not know of her sisters' plans. If she had, she would have felt far less grateful than expected; for strong was the temptation, in the light of recent realizations, to return to her previous state of disengaged moralist. She was no longer uninvolved in the world; she had started to live in it and the aftereffects of this decision were troubling her peace of mind.
In all likelihood, Lord Glowner's proposal and her subsequent meditations had hastened the process of discovering what was in her heart. Mary had been unprepared for this revelation; there had been no signs, no slow build towards this conclusion. She had never considered "the start of a promising inclination"; she had not surmised that there were "rational grounds for an attachment." To find out that her heart was already miles ahead of her head, which had not even begun to form the idea of having a tendre for Mr Bertram, was disconcerting to say the least.
She could not comprehend how Mr Bertram had captured her heart; he, who was so removed from her preconceived notions of what a young man ought to be! He, who was not of a studious, retiring disposition; who was so far from her ideals that the mere suggestion of her partiality towards him was ludicrous!
Unschooled in those matters, which she had always observed with distant bemusement, Mary did not suspect that Mr Bertram's open nature and stimulating discourse were the very things which could rouse her feelings; for she was far more capable of feeling, and deep feeling at that, than she believed herself to be. She had prized intellect above emotion, hoping to separate them entirely; appalled, perhaps, by the wild excesses of her mother and her younger sisters. She had relied on her rational mind to guide her, selecting books which could only elevate her reflections; but her passion for music betrayed her unacknowledged sensibility.
In music, there was this indeterminate something which elicited an immediate, unrepressed emotional response from her. Her savage moods, her unexplained restlessness, all were echoed then in these unassuming sheets of paper; and later, the friendship of Mrs Traumayn, Georgiana and Susan had led her to give free reign to those more delicate feelings. In their company, she had learnt to value a good heart over the appearance of propriety; she had discovered the pleasures of cheerfulness over cold and formal ways.
Mary faltered as she recalled how strongly she had reacted, when faced with Mr Bertram's careless ways; how it had been utterly unacceptable that he should lose his enthusiasm and become a cold, empty shell of a man!
Mary was not wrong in surmising that her friendships had steered her towards love; without saying anything of Susan's attempts to have her cousin and Miss Bennet meet as often as possible, these friendships had taught Mary to care for others. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; Mary had always been an apt pupil, and the conclusion was foregone.
She was interrupted in her thoughts by the arrival of Susan, who looked quite out of breath. Her friend held a letter in her hand; she was flushed and very agitated.
"Mary, you must read this!" she cried. "I do not know what to make of it; you must tell me whether we can believe this account! I still hold him to be the most disagreeable man of my acquaintance; but he would not demean himself to lie, would he? Nay, he is too proud for this."
It took Mary the best of several minutes to get Susan coherent; at last, she was able to speak intelligibly.
On the day of his departure, the Earl of Hampstead had left Mr Harrison a letter, to be given to her. Mr Harrison had done so yesterday, despite his reluctance, because the Earl had sworn that the content of this letter was of interest to Miss Price, as to offer her both apologies and a much needed explanation on a subject they were all invested in. Susan had finally read the letter this very morning; wordlessly she showed it to Mary:
From Lawrence Sanders, Earl of Hampstead, to Susan Price:
Be not alarmed, Miss Price, in receiving this letter; it is not my intent to pursue our quarrel. The recollection of what was said would only bring shame and regret to us both; it cannot be forgotten too soon.
It is not in my habits to explain myself; if I must do so in this letter, it is to defend Hadrian Harding. You may think the worst of me; you may judge me arrogant, proud, and not fit to be a gentleman. I cannot defend my behavior towards you in our last encounter, which was the result of my unyielding temper- my anger got the best of me, and you were not the one who ought to have bear the brunt of it- but these are justifications. Justifications are only consolations to the one who uses them to soothe his bothered conscience; they can be no relief to you, the injured party. To my shame, you have every right to despise me; I shall not contest it. Although my pride was injured when you were ready to believe that I could associate with a man of loose character; that my most intimate friend could be slandered thus! I confess that I was as angry on my account as I was on his. If you only met Harding, you would understand how absurd these suspicions are. I am furious that the bad opinion you must now have of me could prejudice you against him. He is the better man of the two, although you will say that it is hardly difficult to be a better man than I am.
I befriended him three or four years ago. He was the same then as he is today: unaffected, sensible, well-liked by everyone. No unkind words have ever passed his lips; he makes friends easily; offers his assistance without being prompted to, and he is as sociable as I am taciturn.
Through him I met Harrison and Rickman; Harrison you know, talkative and good-natured. Rickman was a stern young man, with a strong sense of duty; and I would have liked him better, if I had not suspected that he cultivated Harding's company more for his eligibility- he wanted his only sister to make a good match- than out of true friendship.
Rickman also introduced us to Lord Glowner. He and I were late additions to this close circle of friends. I have to say that we disliked the other on sight. He could be charming, and attentive; he could talk well, with sense; but he was also too calculating for my tastes. In the pursuit of his interests, he did not show much kindness to others; he had a streak of selfishness which he concealed from our friends. What motivated his dislike of me? I can only postulate that he observed that I had superior powers of perception than our friends; and that he might have been jealous of my being of independent means and of an elevated rank, for he was much attached to his title without having yet the wealth which must come with it. He was all set to inherit the fortune of a rich Aunt, who lived in the same country as the Rickmans. This was during one of his frequent visits to her that he had met Rickman.
There was one year when we often met at Rickman's; Glowner, for it was in his interest to stay in his Aunt's vicinity, since I cannot recall one single word or expression of genuine affection for her; Harding, because he was attracted to the society of Miss Rickman; and Harrison and I, because we wanted the company of our friends.
I witnessed Harding's attentions to Miss Rickman with some trepidation. He was young, and I fancied, less hardened than I; the death of his father and the shouldering of responsibilities at an early age had left him all too amenable to marry in haste, to quench his thirst for affection. His friendship with Rickman also made him all the more eager to unite their families. If I doubted the foundations of his regard for her, I could see no proof of her affection for him. Miss Rickman was an accomplished young lady, which does not signify at all; this means that we all knew that she painted tables painstakingly, and that she mumbled Italian conscientiously; but her character was a mystery to us, as it is often the case with young ladies who are trained to reveal nothing of them. Had she been half as candid as you are, in spite of the occasional lack of propriety you display, I would have been certain of my friend's happiness; but while his attentions pleased her vanity, I could not vouch for her heart.
As for what follows, I must rely on your silence. Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy, if you find it worthwhile to instruct them, you may, for I trust they shall not disclose to the world what I am about to tell you.
Miss Rickman eloped the day before Harding was due to visit and most likely, propose. At least she attempted to run away, but she did not go as far as several miles. It turned out that the man for whom she had thoughtlessly risked her reputation, on the hopes that he would make good on his earlier hints or promises and marry her; the man who had asked her to accept my friend's attentions to better screen them from public scrutiny; the man she had lied for all year until the situation with Harding became untenable; the man who had entreated her to shroud their relation in secrecy until he was free from external influences; that man had now rejected her! He had barely admitted to some flirtation, which she had taken to heart; and he had reminded her that she was all but engaged to Harding!
He left her in this state: ashamed, distressed, with nowhere to go. Her steps led her back to the inn, where by the most amazing coincidence she met Harding who had journeyed early. She could not lie to him: she wept, implored his forgiveness, and let out the whole affair. He consoled her to the best of his ability. I can still recall his expression when he told me the story, months after these fateful events- how shocked and betrayed he had felt, yet he could not resent her, so despairing; who had been led astray by some cruel seducer; who had felt such a strain while he was obliviously courting her!
Where he erred, in my opinion, was in not questioning her more thoroughly. She refused to give up the name of this seducer; Harding did not press her further. He convinced her to go home; all this had happened in the course of a day; the scandal could be hushed. He faced her brother with flimsy excuses, all made in the spirit of protecting her conduct from disapproval. However, there was the letter she had foolishly left, which contradicted his innocent explanations; and Miss Rickman could only sob. She had begged him to hide her own deceptions; in shielding her, he took all the blame. I was irate when he confided in me months later, for Rickman felt wronged, and while fear of exposure prevented him from challenging Harding, I knew that the severed connection would give cause for speculation.
The whole thing was hushed as quickly as possible; Miss Rickman was sent to faraway parents. I must admit that, although I wished she had spoken up to clear Harding's name, she did not attempt to coerce him into matrimony. He would not claim a heart which was not his, and she appeared to have loved passionately, if not wisely, the man who had failed her
Now, I shall relay my own observations. I never told a single soul about them, for I had no proof; only what my eyes saw; what my instincts detected.
Lord Glowner visited the Rickmans as often, if not more, as we did, on account of his Aunt residing nearby. He was very careful with Miss Rickman; too cautious, perhaps. They were so intent on ignoring each other in company, that this behaviour ignited my very suspicions.
They talked very little, as far as one could tell; but there were quick glances, half-smirks; symptoms of intelligence between them…
Further deliberations confirmed the possibility of the existence of such a tangled web. He could have hinted at the tyranny of his Aunt, supportive of his marrying well, to require secrecy. It may be no coincidence that when Miss Rickman eloped, Lord Glowner's Aunt had passed away a fortnight ago. There were no obstacles to their union; and Glowner's silence could not be explained anymore.
For my part, I believe he never had any serious intent to marry her; that he had toyed with her affections mostly due to boredom; and that he blamed her entirely for her elopement. He is a man who hates coercion of any kind, unless he is the one to exact it. Miss Rickman could be a passing fancy, but not the future Lady Glowner. On the rare occasion he allowed himself to tell us about his ideal woman, he made clear that he should seek an unexceptionable creature, with complexity enough to intrigue him. Easy conquests he reviled, forgetting his share of the blame.
I stayed silent, eager to get Harding away from the debacle; anything I could say could be misconstrued as lies for his sake. However, if my silence has encouraged these abhorrent rumours; if this sad affair stands in the way of his happiness; then, perhaps, I concede it to you, my silence may have done more harm than good.
I cannot stand meddling, even with the best intentions. I maintain that your methods were imprudent and that such affairs must be handled with more caution and care; but I have also come to the conclusion that you I should not have questioned. I can hardly blame you for your honesty when I censure the world for its hypocrisy.
Mary read this in astonishment; but before she could analyse the content of the letter, one point must be cleared:
"What is he apologizing for, Susan?" she asked with concern.
Susan gave the details of their altercation, down to the Portsmouth comment. She tried to laugh it off:
"He did not surprise me in the least. This is how he sees me; to a great gentleman like him, I am an insignificant Portsmouth nobody. Do not be indignant on my behalf, Mary; people have whispered far worse behind my back, and I do not expect my circumstances to be erased from their memory. If this is the only matter of consequence to them, I shall not desire their esteem."
Although she spoke cheerfully, she could not deceive her friend. Mary knew that under her bravado, Susan was loath to appear ignorant or ill-bred. She had not grown in comfort and leisure, unlike him; the pain his words had caused would not be soon forgotten. Many older and wiser ladies than Susan had let such slights poison their minds.
"Forget him," Mary cried. "If he could not see your worth, he is a fool; and while his letter does appear to indicate that he repents now, he must beg your forgiveness- and beg it in person! His pride is not entirely humbled yet. His apologies are still lacking. Let them not trouble yourself, Susan; your friends see you, and they value you too much to let all the Earls in the world offend you ever again!"
Susan pressed Mary's hand, and they walked in silence for a while.
"Confounding man!" Susan said at last. "I cannot forget he wrote this letter to me. I do not know what to make of the style in which he apologized. Some parts were almost as bad as his slight- I have spent the whole time feeling alternatively mollified and miffed again!"
If the intended recipient of the letter was confused, so was the sender; this, Susan could not suspect. She pictured the Earl sitting ramrod straight at his desk, writing with sober resolve; but the cool-headed gentleman could not tackle this subject with the same clearness of mind in which he wrote business letters. He was unused to writing explanations; and even less used to apologizing. It occurred to him that the mere privilege of receiving an apology from the Earl of Hampstead would doubtless soften the blow; and perhaps Miss Price would have looked on these clumsy attempts with more indulgence, had she been made aware of the distinction he was bestowing on her. As this was not the case, her perplexity overcame her gratitude; she thought him as stiff and proud in writing as he stood in reality. Indeed, she would have gone on disliking him very much, but for his last words.
When they had exhausted the subject of the Earl, Susan and Mary tackled his account of the events. Mary recollected Lord Glowner's own account; and she recollected other things as well, such as his trouble, which he could not disguise, when she had mentioned his acquaintance with the Rickmans. How defiant, how very much on his guard he had been at such a casual remark! Then, his mind had quickly jumped to the conclusion that the Earl had spoken ill of him. "What tales did Hampstead spin to you?" As soon as Mary had assured him that the Earl had said nothing, and as soon as she had directed her enquiries after Harding, the change in his posture had been immediate; she could only marvel at his audacity.
How intricately he had mixed half-truths and lies, even lending to Harding some of his own reactions to Miss Rickman. "Her eagerness to move up in the world might have made her willingly misconstrue his mild flirtation!"
But he had betrayed himself, when he had spoken of "Harding, who was all set to inherit his father's fortune."
"For Mr Harding's father had passed away; Mr Harding was of independent means already," she told Susan. "It was he, Lord Glowner, who had expectations; he, who was all set to inherit his Aunt's fortune."
That Lord Glowner had made her an offer she did not add; that she should be the ideal creature he had deemed good enough for him to marry could afford her no pleasure. His selfishness, his willingness to put the blame on others' shoulders, she found disgusting; if there was some irony in the fact that the bookish Miss Bennet had been proposed to by a rake, Mary was far from appreciating it.
With the help of Susan, she went on comparing the accounts, assessing what they knew with what they heard. They decided that, as per the Earl's wishes, Lord Glowner's past actions could not be revealed to their friends; but they set out to write to Georgiana at once. Mary was certain that Harding's innocence would be welcomed with happiness by Miss Darcy.
At least one attachment could find a joyful resolution; at least one young lady would not be confused anymore.
"The new Mrs Rushworth is rumoured to enjoy London too much to consider residing in the country; as for her husband, there are too many painful memories associated with this house; so we can safely assume that Sotherton will remain closed off this year."
So spoke Mrs Brereton; she was quickly hushed by Colonel Harrison and Lady Prescott. There was a small party comprising of the Harrisons, Mr Maddox, the Prescotts, Mrs Traumayn and Mary, hosted by the Olivers. Mr Bertram was expected too, but he had not arrived yet, to the satisfaction of Mrs Brereton who went on:
"Oh, Mrs Traumayn and Miss Bennet do not know the particulars, but we are all friends here. The misfortune which befell the Bertrams…"
At this she was quelled by a severe look from Lady Prescott. Colonel Harrison began a loud tale on a military campaign, leaving Mary curious and regretting Lady Prescott's intervention.
Mr Maddox, who was seated nearby, took pity on her. He came closer:
"I understand how frustrating it must be, after months of sharing the intimacy of our circle, to find oneself excluded from what passes for common knowledge in the country. Being a close friend to the Bertrams, you have some right to the truth; and I find it better to hear it from a reliable source instead of speculating wildly, as such ignorance is bound to invite all flights of fancies."
Mary merely nodded, anxious that she would not look too curious. This was enough for Mr Maddox, who explained that a sister from Mr Bertram, the former Mrs Rushworth, had caused quite a scandal some time ago. She had eloped with a man they had all welcomed in their midst, a friend of the Bertrams, a Mr Crawford; then, divorced and abandoned by her lover, she had retired to another country in disgrace.
Mary thought of Lydia, well aware of the repercussions of such a scandal. She was reminded of a bit of gossip she had overheard months ago: "All the trouble Sir Bertram's elder had brought to the family…"
Was it Mrs Rushworth, then? The elder daughter, not the elder son? Had she misjudged him from the start?
"What wretchedness!" she acquiesced. "I cannot imagine what Mr Bertram must have felt."
"This was a hard blow," Mr Maddox answered. "He was not well at the time- an accident had left him in poor health, deserted by the company he kept- not very good friends, I say-, he blamed himself for having encouraged the intimacy of Mr Crawford and his sister with the theatricals he had planned to put at Mansfield."
"I was told," Mary gathered her courage, "that he had gambled heavily at some point."
"Oh, he did lose some money; nothing a few years' worth of economy did not compensate. His estate is now unencumbered. Bertram was not a true gambler. He never was in danger of being in Dun territory. He acted carelessly, as so many elder sons are wont to do; but he regained his senses soon enough. To be honest, I thought his illness, serious as it was, a blessing in disguise. He has not been the same ever since. He is more conscious of his duties. Nothing like some trials to turn us into who we are supposed to be; don't you agree, Miss Bennet?"
Mary readily agreed. She was deeply mortified inside. How prompt she had been in believing Mr Bertram to be flawed and unsteady! It was Lord Glowner too, she recollected, who had declared Mr Bertram to be a gambler; a very clever liar through and through, disguising the truth expertly; but she was not without faults. She had been gullible. She had revelled in her moral superiority, in the same way she used to preen when being touted as the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood by Sir Lucas. Her morals did not put her above the rest; and she was beginning to understand that some people were not as good, and others not as bad, as they first appeared.
She was disappointed in herself, in her hastily-conceived verdicts; she was experiencing confusion after confusion. In all this, only Mr Bertram came out unscathed, for she could no longer claim that his character was totally unsuitable. He might not have been her idea of what a young man ought to be, but experience was teaching her that she ought to revise her past judgments.
Mr Maddox did not see any of this turmoil, and left Miss Bennet's side without suspecting than a single conversation had made him a better matchmaker than the enterprising Miss Price.
At last Mr Bertram arrived at the Olivers'; he greeted everyone, then his eyes rested upon Mary.
She had always thought the expression "violently in love" hackneyed as to be devoid of any meaning. It evoked a disease; but Mr Bertram came her way. Suddenly, she was aware of everything and nothing at once. Her hands went cold and her cheeks grew hot; her pulse quickened. When he said "Miss Bennet" and bowed, she felt so out of breath, as though she had been running instead of standing quite still, that she could only curtsy in return.
The experience of being in love was a novelty, but Mary felt that it must already wear off; for its early effects were most unpleasant, and to put it bluntly, terrifying. If there was some latent exhilaration, it was so fleeting, buried under layers of confusion, and smothered by thoughts in disarray, that Mary could not sense it.
However, she could not ignore it any longer: she was in love with Mr Bertram, and nothing could be done about it.
-Next chapter: more on Georgiana, Susan meddles, Tom and Mary talk, and sudden departures change the situation...
-as usual, feedback is always deeply appreciated!