Title- Mary
Author- 4give4get
Rated- T
Pairing- Mary BennetxOC
Disclaimer- I own nothing.
Serena- Thanks for reading so far.
Thinkoutsidethebun07- Glad you liked it, most def. Thanks for the review! Mary is who she is, so I can't compromise her character. I hope you don't find her too unbearable. Thanks again.
Chapter Two…
I shall not be anything but what I am, Mary thought, almost begging herself to agree, I shall not bend to another's liking. If friendless that makes me, than friendless I want to be.
For the past week, Mary had not spoken a single word to Mr. or Mrs. Bennet or Mrs. Hall. She spent every hour (after having completed her chores) in her room, gathering more and more anger. Anger was not something Mary often felt, you see. And when it was present, she did not feel it for so long nor so heated. True hate pulsed through her veins.
Damn them all.
Mary was more than a little bit cautious of thinking such things. If she let herself get to angry all of her self-control would die away. She valued self-control, to put it lightly.
"Mary!" she heard her mother bang on the door and call her name, "Get yourself dressed and come down! We are to call on a friend of mine!"
Mary glared at the door. She did not care to call on anybody (she never did) and especially not any friend of her mother's. She replied with a simple, "Yes, madam," and turned to her closet. Most of her clothes were of simple cut but dark, dramatic colors. She chose her favorite gown with cap sleeves. It was black with no decoration and again, a simple cut. She matched it with black gloves to her wrists and a long, slender black bonnet. She wore her birthday ribbon around her neck. As she tromped down the stairs, Mrs. Bennet scowled at her dress.
"You look like a widow, Mary. All that black?" she sighed, rubbing her temples, "Now hurry along, won't you?"
I shall not be anything but what I am, I shall not bend to another's liking. If friendless that makes me, than friendless I want to be.
Mary walked the entire way to Meryton three steps behind her mother, who talked nonstop. Mary did not even see a window to add in to the conversation even if she had wanted to do so. The sun was not yet so high in the sky, but the day was still sunny. Mary glared up at the sun, likely freckling her shoulders at that moment—she wore no shawl.
"And I always said that Maria Lucas…" Mrs. Bennet was prattling on.
"Madam," Mary interrupted her, closing her eyes momentarily in annoyance before reopening them, "Indeed, of which friend did you reference you—I do mean we are to call upon?"
"Dear me, I did not!" Mrs. Bennet cried, putting her hand on her heart at the outrageous and nerve shattering thought, "Mrs. Coleman. You recall her, do you not? I do believe her connubial attachment has been ended many years ago by way of the death of her husband, the poor thing. You commit that to memory as well, do you not, Mary?"
"I am sure I do not," Mary replied coolly, snapping a stick on the ground under her shoe, "You, madam, have never spoke of a Mrs. Coleman in the past and it is only palpable that I neither evoke the death of her husband; shall I offer her our sympathies?"
Keep in mind that was the very last thing Mary wanted to do.
"No; no, it happened so long ago I fear that would be quite inappropriate. She lives well enough in Meryton with her cats. No children, not that it's apposite for me to wonder why…" Mrs. Bennet spoke on, but Mary was not listening.
They reached Meryton in good time (not soon enough for Mary) and she began to think of other things far more pleasurable than walking through Meryton or having to sit through tea with Mrs. Bennet and this Mrs. Coleman, who ever she was. And the cats. Mrs. Coleman had cats? Mary shuddered and hoped they'd stay far away from her. Nothing to her was more abominable than a too-friendly cat that was inclined to jump on one's lap and cover her black gown all in cat hair. Black is the color best for showing off cat hair, unfortunately.
She thought instead of Gulliver's Travels and wondered what it would be like to wake up and be on a beach in Lilliput tied down by tiny people. Or be on display to a country of peoples sixty feet tall on average in Brobdingnag? And the Houyhnhnms! The country of intelligent horses, ruling the kingdom of grotesque creatures! Mary at that moment as she walked on through Meryton to this Mrs. Coleman's, she wished that she could just close her eyes and disappear to the Country of the Houyhnhnms! She did not fit in among these Yahoos (what the Houyhnhnms referred to as humans.)
Yes, that is how Gulliver's Travels ends. Gulliver goes to the Houyhnhnm's country and then never intends to leave and return home to England. Well, I should never want to return to England were I in his position, Mary thought. They exile him, therefore forcing him to go home. He finds he cannot live amongst the Yahoos (humans) and lives the rest of his life as a recluse and speaks only to the horses in his stable.
Mary followed her mother until they reached a house, painted an average white with navy blue shutters. The garden included only roses and the walkway to the door was a dirt path. Mrs. Bennet knocked on the door, while Mary stood behind her, completely off the doorstop, still in the yard.
Mrs. Coleman did not look like Mrs. Bennet. Mrs. Bennet was round, rosy-cheeked, and had gleaming eyes. Mrs. Coleman was older, and much, much thinner. Her skin was pale and pallid, achieving a pasty color. Her eyes were dull and glassy, and Mary would even call them glazed-over. Her gown was slightly large.
"Dear Mrs. Coleman," Mrs. Bennet gushed, pulling Mary closer to her by her arm, "How are you today? I don't believe you have yet met my third daughter, Miss Mary Bennet."
Mary did not smile, but forced herself into a curtsy. From what she could tell, Mrs. Coleman was an average woman until the death of her husband. Then she took in the cats, stopped eating, never went in the sun again, and did nothing all day but make lace, thus her countenance. She nodded and greeted Mary civilly and bade they both come in. Her house smelled like old-woman perfume and cat. Mary did everything in her power to not hold her nose.
"Please, sit," she gestured to the seats around the table in her sitting room. Mrs. Bennet and Mary obeyed.
The sitting room had red patterned wallpaper that was likely at one point a deep color. Now it had faded. On the wall hung a portrait of a woman in a powdered wig from forty years ago at least and dark, forbearing eyes.
"That was my great-aunt, Sarah Revere," Mrs. Coleman offered, noticing Mary's gaze.
Mary forced a rare smile at the woman, "Indeed."
"So then you presume to be French?" Mrs. Bennet asked, absent-mindedly.
"Perhaps initially," their hostess admitted, "I have no knowledge of an immigration date, or if one even existed."
"It matters not," Mrs. Bennet replied quickly.
"Would you care for tea?"
"Please."
Mrs. Coleman rang the bell for her young housemaid and ordered her to bring in the teapot and teacups. Mary watched the girl nod and scurry off. She could not be over fifteen-years-old.
"Oh! And Hannah?" Mrs. Coleman called, causing the girl, Hannah to stop in her tracks and turn back around, "Tell my nephew to report down here instantaneously! Mention how rude he is being also!"
"Yes, madam."
Mrs. Bennet made useless small talk, while Mary sat stock-still, staring at the steam rising off of her cup. She could hear the grandfather clock to her left tick out the seconds and each one seemed even slower than its predecessor.
Footsteps on the entrance of the sitting room caused all three women to look up and proceed to stand up, as was only polite. A man entered the room, a large smile plastered across his face. Mary quickly looked away—she did not know what he found so pleasurable as to smile so, but was quite sure she did not care, either.
Mrs. Coleman introduced him, "This is my dear younger sister's only child, James Latimer. James, may I present Mrs. Bennet and her daughter, Miss Bennet?"
Mary bowed at her head and murmured a stiff, "How do you do?" Mary realized something further—she was to be called Miss Bennet now, instead of Miss Mary Bennet. She was the eldest of unmarried daughters. She even smiled at the thought—the title "Miss Bennet" was hers!
James Latimer looked to be hardly five-and-twenty. His stature was tall, and he was not the best looking of men, but certainly not ugly. His hair was unruly and black, but his eyes were an icy shade of blue. A blue that made Mary look twice.
"Miss Bennet," James Latimer acknowledged her, and gently brought her gloved hand to her lips. Mary, who had been looking at him indifferently the entire time, suddenly gasped in shock—James Latimer was an American!
"Indeed, my nephew from Baltimore," Mrs. Coleman was saying to Mrs. Bennet, "Came all the way to Meryton to spend a few months with his old aunt, is that not kind of him?"
"Inexplicably," Mary found herself saying, before she could think twice. By the time she realized exactly what she had said, it was too late. Mrs. Coleman blinked, James Latimer stifled a laugh, and Mrs. Bennet paused uncomfortably, but then plunged right back into conversation again, as if nothing had ever happened.
Mary blushed at her rudeness, and set to look busy… doing anything. She resolved to blow at her tea, as if it needed cooling. In truth, Mary found she could not drink a sup of tea without gagging. She simply did not care for it. The rest of the call was absolute torture. Mary forced down the smallest sip of tea and set to coughing, and had to excuse herself from the room momentarily to gulp water from the basin in the kitchen.
"Weak stomach," she lied quickly when she walked back into the room, mortified, all eyes on her.
Mrs. Bennet talked and talked. She even talked of talking! Mrs. Coleman seemed to enjoy listening, strangely enough. She even talked back. Mary planned to commit suicide before she ever became such a talkative, gossipy old hag. Every once in a while, Mary would look up to see James Latimer's eyes on her. She glared at him, causing him to back off.
For about five minutes.
When Mrs. Bennet declared it was time to leave for the fifth time (all other times she plunged straight back into conversation for another agonizing five minutes) she actually walked out the front door. But didn't stop talking, naturally. As soon as she was able to, she was gossiping about Mrs. Coleman and her nephew.
"An American!" her mother gasped as soon as they exited the yard, "To think, we were in the company of such a person!"
Mary had never been to America, nor had she heard much about it. It was supposed to be a place of savages and thieves who followed no rules and who ran about doing whatever pleased them and drank ale and gambled and are complete scoundrels. In short, Mary had never heard a single good thing said about the place.
But now, somehow when Mary thought of America, all she pictured were icy blue eyes. She cut these thoughts short and threw them from her mind immediately. Why not? They were simply absurd. Mary had many strange thoughts, but these ones truly frightened her. She vowed quickly to not turn into a Lydia or a Kitty.
When they finally returned to Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet repeated to her husband the scandal of an American in Hertfordshire. Mary rolled her eyes, when her back was faced to them. An American must be a disagreeable thing, she pondered.
Mary decided to spend the remainder of the day in the kitchen attempting to bake a soufflé. How hard could it be, after all? First, she inhaled some of the flour on accident and spent a full quarter of an hour coughing and gagging. When she finally finished whipping the egg whites, her arm was so sore and stiff she feared it might fall off. When she finally put the thing in the oven, she felt like she'd fought in a battle, not baked a soufflé.
When it had finished baking, she carefully pulled it from the oven and showed it off to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Mrs. Bennet congratulated her on it, while her husband remained silent. And then the thing just collapsed. It is a miserable thing when a soufflé you spend half a day preparing falls in on itself not even a full minute after you pull it from the oven, and Mary glared at the ruined soufflé and coughed some more flour up.
Mrs. Bennet remarked that it was a weak French dish anyhow and not worth its trouble, while Mr. Bennet ordered to have the table set—best not let it go to waste, even if it was flat. For supper the three ate flattened soufflé and Mary downed it with a quick glass of water and reported straight to her chamber for the night.
For the first time ever, Mary looked at herself in her mirror. What you might expect of a nineteen-year-old girl was the reflection that looked at her back. She was gaunt-pale. Her cheeks were the farthest thing from rosy. Her hair was an average light brown, as were her eyes. Her hair hung a little past her shoulders without so much as a single curl or wave. Her cheekbones were defined. She could not say in a good or a bad way, however. Her nose was wide and her lips (which were the one thing she could find agreeable about herself) were her pink and sized. In short, Mary was plain.
Her figure was small. She was the shortest out of all of her sisters. Jane was tall and elegant. Lizzy was only slightly shorter than her. Kitty was average height, but had the best curves so it hardly mattered. Lydia was the tallest and the slenderest. Mary was just small and childlike still at nineteen years old. She appeared more to be fifteen-ish.
There are worse things than being small. At least I am not fat like Camilla Waterhouse, she reasoned to herself.
The next morning, she woke and dressed in a modest gray gown and her hair was in a single braid down her back. After breakfast, Mrs. Bennet spent her time scolding Mary for the other day when she gagged on Mrs. Coleman's tea. How impolite and savage-like it was, though to an American it should be commonplace… Mary was not listening to her.
As Mrs. Hall collected dirty dishes, Mrs. Bennet turned to her daughter again, "Mary, have you done your chores yet today?"
"I have not, madam."
"Well, do them later. It looks as if to rain this morning, does it not? Make sure to bring in all of the laundry, if it should be re-wetted I should be quite distressed," Mrs. Bennet chattered.
And we simply cannot have that, can we? Mary thought dryly, and left the room. It was a fine morning. The sky was gray and the air was cool. The wind blew gently, singing over the hills of heath. All beckoned to rain. Mary ran across the yard, the wind tearing at her skirt and hair and grabbed a basket off of the front porch. Longbourn stood proud and stately as always.
The basket fell from her grasp and was carried off by the wind. Mary chased it all the way to the country road to Meryton. She lunged for it, but the wind instantly moved it, as if taunting her. She gritted her teach and lunged again. No luck. The wind cut through her thin dress and gave her gooseflesh.
"Would, perhaps, some assistance be necessary, Miss Bennet?" a voice asked. Of course, Mary recognized it instantly, because indeed, how many people in Hertfordshire spoke with the slow lagging drawl that was the American accent?
She turned to face him and realized with anguish that his blue eyes had not been made any less sincere. He had a face that stuck in your mind even when only seeing it twice. His jaw was defined. His character—Mary had trouble reading. He did not dress so finely as most gentlemen and it was obvious he was not excessively wealthy. He was tall, however, over six feet and had perfectly even, white teeth, which she knew only because he smiled so often.
"If you're inclined to give it, Mr. Latimer," Mary replied, clenching her fists. Why was he speaking to her? Obviously, he had not been around the area enough to know that you are only to speak to Mary Bennet if forced to. Mary was more used to that system.
He caught her basket and handed it to her with a gracious bow, a big smile playing on his face. Mary, recognizing that he was mocking her, snatched it from his hands and turned on her heel in the most uncivil manner she could muster.
James Latimer laughed out loud at her. He had a deep, ardent laugh and used it, too. Mary was now shaking head to two with rage. She turned to face him again and silently watched him laugh. She had been in his presence for not even ten seconds and he'd made her almost the angriest she'd been in her life. She imagined slapping him would be satisfactory. Yes, very satisfactory indeed.
But she restrained herself. She would not shed her calm and grave deportment so easily. She viewed him through stern eyes, and watched the wind tear at his black hair, messing it up further.
"What, pray, is so humorous?" she asked in an even tone.
"You, Miss Bennet," he said.
Bloody American, she thought and began walking back towards Longbourn. She still did need to bring all of the laundry in before the rain started, mind. It took her a few steps to realize James Latimer was following her. Where were Kitty and Lydia when you needed them? Surely they'd flirt with him and scare him off once and for all.
"Do you not need to be getting back to your aunt?" Mary demanded, walking faster.
He sped up as well, "Well, my visiting her is inexplicable, as you so pointed out."
Damn him. Who did he think he was, using her own words against her? Mary decided she did not like Americans one bit.
She turned to face him, feeling herself blush, "That, sir, was a mistake on my part. I did not truly mean to imply that…" she trailed off, trying to think of what to say.
"That what?" James asked, "That it was a wonder that someone would sail all the way to England to visit an old aunt, dying anyway?"
"No!" blustered Mary, her cheeks now flaming. Oh, why had she let her tongue slip in that single moment?
"Then what did you mean to imply?" he stepped closer to her and she was hypnotized by his eyes. She pulled her own eyes away from his, as so she could speak, although not without interruption.
"I do not know; I apologize if there were any offence made. And if that is why you came here, you may now go, satisfied! Good day to you!" she dropped into a quick curtsy and began to walk briskly back to Longbourn.
James followed her still, "I did not come here for an apology, although I do accept yours."
"Then why have you come?"
"To inquire after Mrs. Bennet's health."
Mary stopped and faced him again, "Mr. Latimer, I am not Mrs. Bennet, so you may—"
"And is this not the direction of the Longbourn estate where Mrs. Bennet resides?" he interrupted her and grinned at his wit, "Ah, Miss Bennet, we do seem to be going the same way."
She wished that this man was as unintelligent as Bingley, and she could easily win in a conversation like the one just had because she could simply outwit him. But no, James would not be easily shed.
"Mr. Latimer," she whispered.
"Yes?" Damn, she hadn't actually planned on him hearing her in that moment.
"Um, why is it that you are liable to inquire after the health of Mrs. Bennet?" she made up the question off the top of her head
"Do you always refer to your mother as so prescribed a name as that?" he asked.
"Yes," Mary answered him, "For I am barely on speaking terms with the woman."
"And the woman sure does love to speak, so that must be something," James pointed out, "If you don't mind me saying so."
"Say what you wish about her," Mary spat, "I will not hinder you."
"I sense anger."
"You sense correctly."
"Pray, why are you so livid with your mother?"
Mary turned on him, "And why would I owe you such information?"
"You don't. I was just wondering if you might grace it upon me anyway."
She rubbed her chin and pondered, "Perhaps I shall, come closer."
He did.
"Let us be vague; Mrs. Bennet does not approve of… certain reading materials," she said slowly into his ear.
"What such reading materials are these?" James wanted to know.
"What does it matter?" Mary demanded, angry that he wasn't getting the whole point of the story, "She believes me unnatural, heathen, and un-Christian, and burned a book of mine after the most horrid argument!" And there she said it. So much for being vague—that was pretty much the entirety of the story minus a few inconsequential details. That was the elucidation for the contemporary state of her life in a nutshell.
"I see how it is, but you mistake my inquires, Miss Bennet," he grinned down at her, "I am fond of reading myself. What sorts of books have you been torturing your poor mother with?"
"Do not mistake Mrs. Bennet for being anything like poor," Mary ordered, holding up her pointer finger as she made her speech, "Anything I have done to her is exceedingly diminutive to her actions towards me. I speak truthfully. If she refuses to recognize me for exactly what I am, I most categorically do not consider her reduced."
"Such a statement is intrepid for a young lady," he said in a mocking way, "You certainly are angry."
"I was under the conjecture that we had already accredited to that much," she pointed out.
"Right you are, Miss Bennet, how discourteous of me," he grinned at the word discourteous, and was therefore mocking her again, "But please, satisfy the curiosity my illustrious love of reading offers me—"
"Or condemns you," Mary interrupted him this time.
"Perhaps—what on Earth were you reading?" he asked, finally.
"A Critique of Pure Reason, by Immanuel Kant," she sighed, recalling how that book had been burned to nothing.
James laughed. Again. He laughed loudly and forwardly, irritating her further.
"What is so humorous?" she asked for a second time.
"You," he replied the same way as last, "You think you are such a dreadful, naughty girl by sneaking off to the tiny little Meryton bookshop and purchasing German philosophy that preaches science in place of religion."
Mary felt herself blush again. She racked her brain to find something to argue that statement with. She did not think fast enough, and James was not done.
"You know nothing of the outside world, do you Miss Bennet? Don't you know that there are places beyond Hertfordshire?"
"Of course I—" she sputtered, but he went on.
"And that such writers as Kant are only the beginning. You are innocent, Miss Bennet, and dare I say ignorant?"
"Ignorance," Mary felt her tongue wrap around the word, "Ignorance, I despise. Anything like stupidity is abhorrent."
"Ignorance," James corrected, "can be also be excusable, if the subject has had no opportunity to know any better than to be ignorant."
"I suppose that makes sense enough," Mary agreed, "Two kinds of ignorance. Take my eldest sister, Jane. She is ignorant. She does not believe a single soul is capable of malicious intent."
"An unforgivable ignorance to be sure," James put in, grinning and obviously mocking her.
"Is it not?" she argued, "One must be dense—truly dense if the world is indecipherable to them. If you do not think on as much of a large-scale as possible, your ignorance is unforgivable, as Jane's is."
"You are precise and merciless in your judgment, Miss Bennet," James told her, "And I suppose you may be accurate. Unlike your depicting of your sister's ignorance, I declare yours to be understandable and therefore forgive you for it. But I have resolved to help you—to see such a girl so innocent of the world is difficult to watch. Would you make a quick trip to my aunt's house? I believe I should be able to lend you some satisfactory reading materials."
"I suppose I will," Mary said, and smiled. It was not a full smile, more like a smirk, but it had not been forced along with all that was civil. It was a real, genuine smile.
End Chapter
Serena- Hem, hem, hard to believe I'm only fourteen, right? Kidding. Anyway…
This one was longer. Also, I imagine Mary as she looks in the movie with Keira Knightly as Elizabeth Bennet. So just think Tallulah Riley. Just your average girl.
Please review.