AN: Hi all ! I had a bit of a break in my writing, for personal reasons. I should get back on track now though 😊 Enjoy !
Chapter 8
A few days later, a letter arrives for Jane at breakfast. It is from Caroline Bingley, surprise, surprise, and Jane is invited to dinner.
I know what is going to happen, so I get up and go see our stable hand. I had warned him that we might need the carriage one day soon, so when he sees me, he is ready.
"The carriage, Miss Mary?"
"Yes, for my sister Jane. Please have it ready this afternoon, I do not know yet when she will need it. She will also be wanting to return home tonight."
Yes, I am foiling Mrs Bennet's evil plot. I would really rather my sisters stayed unscathed during this time. Besides, . I have seen Jane sick; it is not pretty. I'm pretty sure the whole Netherfield fiasco didn't really help Jane and Bingley's story. And Lizzie will probably thank me. The stay at Netherfield really was more about antagonizing Miss Bingley than anything else for her.
The plot can go to hell for all I care; I'm not letting my sisters get hurt.
Mrs Bennet can't even complain. Just as she was getting into a rant about the horses being needed elsewhere, I arrive to say I checked with the stable hand and the carriage will be at Jane's disposal.
You must go on horseback, for it looks like rain is definitely one of her stupider phrases in the book.
So I'm smiling while I wave goodbye to Jane. I'm even smiling when I go to bed, even though she hasn't arrived home yet – I'm sure the party just went on until late.
I'm not smiling any more the next morning.
"What? Jane took ill?"
What sort of wretched karma is this? How? She took the carriage!
"And it seems Lizzie has the same cold. I suspect it's the Smiths – their youngest had a fever when Lizzie and Jane went to visit them four days ago."
Who is going to take care of Jane now? Why is Lizzie ill too?
Oh dear. Now I remember. A few days ago, Jane had planned on going to visit the tenants, and Lizzie initially wanted to practice the pianoforte – but I was busy with it, and didn't really want to get out of my zone. So she went with Jane, and practiced later.
Maybe the original Mary had been reading sermons, or doing something which was not playing the piano? Have I just made both my sisters ill by accident? Well, I've made this mess, I might as well fix it.
"Lydia, would you mind tending to Lizzie while she needs it? Kitty, I trust you'll stay away from Lizzie, we don't want you catching whatever she has, I don't like the sound of your cough these days. I think I'll go to Jane. Her note clearly says she is feeling poorly and would like some company," I say, taking charge. Mrs Bennet doesn't even mind any more. "Besides, they have sent for Mr Jones and I won't let him do any bloodletting."
Mr Jones and I get along rather well – except when he's tending to patients. He's a real butcher. I let him use leeches (which from what I remember reading in the 21st century once does help thin the blood) but I don't let him bleed my sisters or me. Mr and Mrs Bennet seem fine with it, and wouldn't listen to me anyway, so I let things lie.
"Very well, Mary, but I'm afraid that there really is no carriage to be had today, since it was already used yesterday" Mrs Bennet informs me.
"Very well, mother. Might I go on horseback?"
"Yes, good idea. And try to be agreeable to the Netherfield party. None of that boring mathematics. Don't pester Mr Gregory."
"Yes, mama."
And just like that, I'm off to Netherfield.
Once there, I take the time to tidy up my hair under my bonnet and brush the dirt from my riding coat. I really like the extra fabric it has. Swish, swish.
I inquire after my sister, but I have to brave the obligatory 'interrupting the breakfast' scene. Miss Bingley is clearly making fun of me, sporting a mocking smile and nudging Mrs Hurst. I can't care less. I just want to see Jane.
She's glad to see me, I think, but sad to hear about Lizzie catching the same cold as her. She had the first symptoms last night, as she was having dinner with the terrible sisters.
The Bingley sisters spend the day with us, and are almost agreeable. I could like them, I think, if they weren't so different around others. Their attitude strikes me as a bit immature.
As the day goes on, it seems that Jane's situation isn't improving, and instead is getting worse.
It's soon decided I will stay to tend to Jane.
At dinner, I am sat next to Mr Gregory, who makes polite inquiries about Jane, and my other sisters. I tell them Lizzie also caught the same cold, and I think I detect an extra bit of worry on Darcy and Gregory's part when I tell them that.
"Have you any idea how they caught it? If the malady is very infectious, should we quarantine?"
"It is but a common cold, I believe, caught a few days ago while visiting a sickly tenant child. I daresay we are safe."
"But what of you?" Mr Gregory asks. "You have tended your sister all day long, do you not risk the same ailment?"
I blink at him, surprised he should ask. At home, the task of tending my sisters always comes to me, simply because I feel that even my poor grasp of medicine in the 21st century is better than what we have here. Nobody questions this at home.
"Oh," I stammer. "I do not tend to get ill," I explain. "And I am always careful to wash my hands regularly when I am tending a sick person."
"You are a very apt nurse, to be sure," Miss Bingley chimes in. "I do so hate to be ill myself, and try to avoid it as best I can."
"Miss Bennet could hardly have wanted to be sick," Mr Bingley protests. "And I'm sure the poor child she and Miss Elisabeth took care of is very grateful for their attention."
The conversation – about the dangers of visiting tenants – flows around me, and I soon take my leave to check on Jane.
She is awake, and I coax some tea into her, before she falls asleep again.
I'm a bit bored.
In the spirit of going to ask Mr Bingley where the library is, I go downstairs.
"Ah, Miss Mary! I hope your presence means your sister is feeling better," Mr Bingley exclaims effusively when he sees me."
"Indeed, sir, she is resting," I explain. "I came down to ask if I could borrow a book from you?"
"Oh, yes, here are some you could read if you like, but I'm afraid the selection I have is quite unsatisfactory."
"Yes, it is rather terrible, Bingley," Mr Gregory cuts in. He is currently bent over a table, tinkering with something. "Why don't you come help me with this darned music box, Miss Bennet, I need someone with small hands for this."
Intrigued, I go sit by Mr Gregory.
It's amazing. It looks like a large scale version of one of those music boxes we can get in modern day. There is a thick tube which can rotate, and when it does, some parts of it which are sticking out strike some tines, which look vaguely like the keys to a piano, and make music.
"The problem, you see, is with this piece," Mr Gregory explains to me. He shows me where the tube should be inserted into the box. "We can't see it, but I think there's something wrong with the mechanism. The roll won't turn. I just can't figure out how to get everything out – the pieces probably just need a good clean."
This is clearly out of my comfort zone, but it's a pretty box, and quite small, so I try to pry it open with my nails and generally discuss the issue with Mr Gregory. He has a soft, pleasant voice. We spend the evening together, heads bent over the machinery, fiddling away.
Unfortunately, I'm not of much help, since I'm not really used to doing these sorts of things. I actually get a bit nervous as we try things out, and my hand trembles a bit when I'm fitting a small piece into place.
"Here, Miss Mary, why don't I hold this piece, so that you can have a steadier hand," Mr Gregory suggests, and he uses his hands to cup the music box and make sure it's stable. The result is that I have to rest my hand on his as I fit the pieces in. It works; my hands are much more steady. But I can't help but blush, as I feel Mr Gregory's slightly rough hands. It's silly, really – I've done much more than hold hands with a man in the 21st century, but here, now, in front of a room full of people who can't really see because of how our bodies are angled – it feels forbidden and exciting.
Get a grip, Mary !
Thankfully, we don't stay like this for too long, because just when I have slotted the final piece into place, Mr Darcy rises, which means Miss Bingley does too, and in a few seconds everyone has decided to go to bed.
I'm busy rubbing my hand where it rested on his, marvelling at the fact that I can still feel an echo of what his hand felt like on mine, when I hear Mr Gregory call me from a few paces away.
Whoops. Looked like I stood up without saying goodnight.
"The box still doesn't work, Miss Mary," Mr Gregory is showing me, winding it up with no result.
I frown. "How strange. We shall have to try again tomorrow. Good night, Mr Gregory."
I check on Jane, sleeping fitfully, and head to my room with a small, secret smile. Who knows what might happen the next time Mr Gregory and I work on the music box?
The rest of my stay at Netherfield is desperately boring. I tend to Jane during the day, and tinker with the music box in the evenings, and although Mr Gregory is interested when I open it up again, and we discuss it at length, there is no more hand holding. Sigh.
On the last evening, we are interrupted in our activity by the others.
"It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have the patience to be so very accomplished as they all are."
Uh oh.
I lend an ear to the conversation as I keep trying to figure out how this music box works. So, this bit goes there, which makes that turn, which…
"And to all this she must add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading, and possibly the study of mathematics."
I'm floored.
Sadly, my reaction is to snort derisively. I try to make it sound like a small cough, but I catch Mr Gregory smirking at me.
Whoops. Not ladylike at all. And everyone is staring.
"Something to add, Miss Mary?" Miss Bingley asks haughtily. Clearly, I have upset her sensibilities. I've heard her speculating on if I am going to steal her music box away, with the amount of time I've been playing with it.
"Well," I start. I haven't paid much attention to their conversation, really. "I simply find it very interesting how this society requires women be so accomplished, so – perfect, but has practically no demands on men."
"No demands!" Bingley splutters. "I disagree. I wouldn't have gone to university if there were no demands on men."
"Estate management is no small task, I assure you," Mr Darcy also explains to me.
"You willfully misunderstand me," I retort. "I was merely alluding to the different accomplishments ladies should have. A lady is not a lady, and loses some of her value, if she is not properly accomplished, and does not present herself a certain way. Whereas a gentleman is a gentleman, be he good at fencing, or horse riding, or if he doesn't dance at an assembly. There is a difference in the personas we must present in public, which I believe is unfair to the ladies."
"There are some men who do not act as they should, indeed, but they are rare," Bingley protests.
"I would argue that there are many more gentlemen who do not fence regularly, or who do not tend their estates as they should, than gentlewomen who do not know how to embroider, sing, or play an instrument, which are some of the accomplishments you cited."
I wish I could say more – about the liberties men are given which women cannot hope to have in this time – but I think I have shocked the assembly more than enough for tonight. The only one who seems to be taking all this in stride is Mr Gregory – and he is looking at me with interest, sporting a sarcastic little smile, and hasn't said a word.
"You are not grateful, then for your station? For the opportunities presented to you? You do not wish to better your situation in life?" Miss Bingley questions me further, her tone laced with contempt.
"I am grateful for the opportunities I have been given in this life," I insist. "I have learnt the pianoforte, which has brought me much pleasure, and I am well aware that the lot of a gentleman's daughter is preferable to most any other. But I find it unfair a gentlewoman is expected to hone her accomplishments like daggers in order to catch a husband, whereas gentlemen are more of the mind to escape the 'parson's trap', and need not put any effort into it at all. Could accomplishments not be pursued for their own sake? I for my own part do not wish to marry, does that mean I should give up the pianoforte altogether, to give my sisters more time at the instrument, since they are more inclined to do so?"
Silence. Even Mr Gregory is looking at me as if I was some sort of extraterrestrial being. I've said too much. It's probably time for a retreat.
"It is late, I believe I shall retire. Good night," I whisper. What have I done now? I stop by Jane's room – she's sleeping peacefully, lucky girl, before fleeing to my own.
The next morning, I practice the piano. I'm feeling a bit jittery after my outburst the previous evening, and so I'm distracting myself by playing with the rhythm and general feel of my favourite piece. I'm speeding it up, and adding a bit of a jazzy feel. I'm pretty sure I'm alone until Mr Darcy strolls along.
"I've always thought that music was best played exactly as the composer first imagined it. It may be modern to affect extra sentimentality to the piece with a different rhythm, or strange pauses, but to me it simply ruins the pleasure of listening."
Who asked for his opinion? I glare at him. I'm really tempted to tell him to go away if he doesn't like my playing, but I am a guest here, and besides, this is Lizzie's future husband I'm talking to. I need to be on his good side if I want to visit her. Be polite, Mary.
"I personally agree, but my sister Elisabeth likes to add a bit of character to whatever she plays, and I find the result pleasing. I am trying to emulate her. Many people in the neighbourhood enjoy her playing very much."
Ha! Take that! He's already seen her play, so he must have already enjoyed it. It's rude of me to use my prior knowledge against him, but he just pushed my buttons.
"Ah, but your own playing is delightfully correct. You have a firm grasp of the proper rhythm a piece should be played at, I believe. Your sister does indeed play quite well, but less correctly."
"I believe everybody has their own affinity to rhythm, and the way a person plays should reflect that. How do you explain the composer's notes? Piano here, staccato there? Doesn't that give me a license to interpret?"
"It's just – to give a certain tone to the music, without changing its rhythm. What you had just been playing sounded – wrong."
"You have a go, then, since you obviously know much more than I."
"That is unfair, since Mr Darcy cannot have practiced the pianoforte much, and that piece is rather tricky. Perhaps I might try my hand at it?"
"Very well sir," I sniff at Mr Gregory, who I believe had been lurking in a doorway, listening to our conversation. How else would he know what I was playing?
He then proceeds to play the music flawlessly. I mean, wow.
My hand heats up where his had touched it three evenings ago, and I rub at it.
Mr Gregory finishes, and I clap effusively. "Mr Gregory, I did not know you had such a talent."
"I do not play often."
"I thank you, Mr Gregory, you have proved my point. You cannot refute my opinion on the matter, Miss Mary, after such a performance."
"Indeed, I cannot."
"Very well, I am glad you have been brought to reason, Miss Mary. Might I ask for your advice on the music box? I cannot recall – was this piece inserted this way or that way? I think we were on the verge of a breakthrough yesterday evening."
And with that, I spend a good half hour before my departure with Mr Gregory, discussing the various mechanisms and clockwork in the music box.
Mr Darcy is there all along, and if he weren't so concentrated on his book I would wonder if he was listening in. But he never speaks to us, and Mr Gregory is such charming company that I quite forget about him.
And just like that, in the blink of an eye really, Jane and I are packed into a carriage, and our stay at Netherfield is over.