Chapter 3
My Disguise
Mary woke up a little late a few days later. She could hear Mr. Collins reading monotonously from Fordyce's Sermons to her sisters as she dressed. As usual, she wore a gray dress with a black blouse underneath, and a black shawl over it all. As she was pulling her long brown hair straight back into a bun, Kitty slipped into the room after giving a soft knock.
She flopped down on the bed in a rather ungraceful manner and groaned. "Mary, you should be glad you slept late. Lydia and I have had to listen to--"
"I know, Kitty. I've been listening. You forget, you can hear everything that is said up here. Sometimes it can be advantageous, but when it's Mr. Collins…" She trailed off.
"I know. How I wish he would leave!" Kitty complained. "Why is he here, anyway? I can see no reason at all for his unwanted visit!"
"Catherine, for all your wild imagination, you can't even figure out why Mr. Collins is here? He's here to find a wife, can't you see that?"
"How on earth did you know that?"
"I can hear everything from up here, remember? Maybe it's not so obvious, but he stated his purpose to Mama and Papa when he first arrived. So far, it seems, he's not had a bit of luck. I think he's after Lizzy, but I can't be sure."
And so the two sisters spent the morning in its entirety talking. Of all her sisters, Mary was closest to Kitty, though they had little in common. Mary did feel that Kitty was able to understand her better than anyone else, as she was often ignored as well because of the dramatic Lydia. Mary often grew tired of Kitty coming to her and whining or giggling, but she never showed it; rather, she tried to steer her favorite sister away from Lydia's unchangeable vain ways. In addition to this common ground, they had the same dark hazel eyes: not green, not brown, but a mixture of them both. Nobody knew where they got their eyes. Papa had dark brown eyes, which Lizzy had inherited, and Mama had given Jane and Lydia light blue eyes, though Lydia often complained that she wished they were bluer.
Even in talking with her closest sister, this morning as always, Mary still kept up her facade. In all Kitty's constant chatter about men, she acted like she thought it was all a waste of time. And indeed, Kitty's obsession was. But Mary's practical comments about the subject, as she had admitted to herself once or twice, were merely a mask, a front to hide her longing to live as her sisters lived. She knew she couldn't do a thing about it, so she hid behind her books and her music and acted like she never gave men a second thought. She never allowed herself to let down her disguise. She was too afraid of getting hurt.
After they had talked the morning away, they were summoned downstairs for dinner. As they walked downstairs, Kitty was giggling and chattering with Mary patiently lending her an ear; after they left her room, however, she never said word.
As soon as they had finished dinner, Kitty and Lydia left to go to Meryton. Mary retired to the drawing room to practice on the pianoforte. For hours upon hours she practiced, not so much because she enjoyed it as much as because there was simply nothing else to do.
After she had been playing for the better part of the afternoon, she began playing Beethoven's Sonata quasi una Fantasia, which she played with all the passion she had in her. Every time she played this piece, she lost herself in the music, gave herself completely up to it. Now she played it perfectly, contrasting the dynamics with practiced skill and articulation without looking up.
As soon as she finished the mournful piece, a voice spoke from the back of the room, making her start.
"That was breathtaking!" Mr. Wickham said as he crossed over to the piano. "I had no idea you could play like that!"
Mary turned around on the bench, still startled. "I didn't know anyone was listening," she said softly.
"I couldn't help but hear. I was escorting your younger sisters home and came in merely out of courtesy. But your mother had something to discuss with them and suggested that Elizabeth may be around somewhere. I thought it was she who was playing." He spoke gently. "I'm sorry if I startled you."
"Oh, no, d-don't be…" Mary stammered, unused to such attention. She felt a faint blush creep up the sides of her face as he reiterated, "That was wonderful."
All too soon, yet not soon enough, he straightened up and said, "Well, I really must be going. But I do hope to see you again soon." With that, he left.
Mary sighed and allowed herself to wonder whether he really meant that he hoped to see her soon. But only for a brief moment, however, for the pragmatism that had become her signature soon took over and she insisted to herself that he was just being polite.
Still, after a couple of moments of thoughtfulness, she found herself looking to the door where he had left and wondering what might have been.