Title- Mary
Author- 4give4get
Rated- T
Pairing- Mary BennetxOC
Disclaimer- I own nothing.
Serena- Much thanks.
Thinkousidethebun- Thanks a bunch! I'm glad you like James, I wasn't sure about him. Maybe thought he was too much.
pottergirls- I appreciate your compliments, thank you for reading.
Chapter Three…
James made his inquiry of Mrs. Bennet, who was hardly civil to him, seeing as he was a mere American, but he only laughed of it. Mary found one thing about James Latimer she could respect—he needed no one else's kindness. It seemed they would have something in common after all.
James was expressive though. He was not shy, but just stood up and said his opinions, whether or not anyone wanted to hear it. Well, hadn't he been doing that to her for as long as she'd been conversing with him? He was confident in himself and spoke loudly and forcefully, as compared to Mary's softer, graver tone. She found him utterly superior in that sense. And she was bemused by it all.
They walked back to Mrs. Coleman's abode, and Mary bid the woman good morning, and was only forced to make small talk with her while James retrieved the books from upstairs in the room he slept in. Mary no longer found in inexplicable that James would visit her—she was just a lonely old woman.
When he returned, he held two books. One was extremely thin, and not any more than a single night's read. The other was of average thickness. He showed her the thin one first.
"Miss Bennet, this is what I believe you should start with," he handed it to her.
The book was entitled Common Sense by Thomas Paine. The title definitely intrigued her and sparked her interest, and she looked to him for further explanation.
"Thomas Paine wrote it in 1775 in Philadelphia during the war," he told her, tapping the cover with his finger, "It is by and large just an exceedingly long speech on why America ought to be liberated from British rule. He writes of some of the problems that kings and monarchies have caused in the past and terminates they are unnecessary because these systems of government do not work for the good of all. Think of it, Miss Bennet, do you not agree that all men are equal at creation and therefore the division between kings and subjects is a false one?"
Mary stared into his sincere blue eyes as she pondered all he had said. And (be ready for it) she was glad she met him. As absurd a thought as it was, it was true. Had she never met the American, James Latimer, she would likely never have been introduced to such ideas.
"Well," James concluded when he realized she would not answer, "Think on it. And this one here is actually a novel." The title read, 120 Days of Sodom, by Marquis de Sade, "It is most likely outside of your usual reading habits, and thought you might like to broaden your horizons."
"And how would you know of what lies in my usual reading habits, Mr. Latimer?" Mary retorted, accepting the second book also.
His blue eyes bore into her and he smirked, leaning down to bring his face level to hers, "Miss Bennet, if you find Immanuel Kant forward, you have yet to see it all. Read them both."
"I shall," Mary promised, and stood to leave, "Good day, sir."
"Good day, madam."
Mary walked home, holding both books close to her. She would have to make sure neither Mrs. Hall nor Mrs. Bennet would happen to stumble upon them. That would be rather embarrassing—having to explain to James why his books had been thrown in the sitting room fie. The sky grew gray and cloudy by the minute, and Mary ran the last half a mile to Longbourn, as the drops began to fall down.
One hit her forehead, then the back of her neck. It was so cool and wet and she dropped James Latimer's books carelessly in the shelter of the front porch and jumped down the steps four at a time, like she did when she was a child. She ran and held her arms out as to feel the rain. She tripped over vines and screamed in delight.
We all remember one time or another in our childhood, where we would, on a rainy day, simply ran as fast and as far as our excess energies would allow, and pull down the getting wet laundry (although with no heart in the job) and laugh out loud when a white sheet would fall into a puddle of mud. That was a fair description of Mary's own afternoon that day.
As if she were seven years old again.
And Mary did read James Latimer's books. She did not sleep that night, but rather stayed up and read both books cover to cover. The first one, Common Sense, was as she expected. Thomas Paine wrote with vigor and emotion. He would not be suppressed. Not even by the king of England himself. Mary found she could respect him.
He wrote, "Democracy," the new French system of government. Mary found other thoughts when she thought of America—a country from the beginning that was built on new ideas. When she finished it (it did not take long) she glanced around her chamber and laughed out loud at the folly of kings and queens. How useless they were!
Then she began 120 Days of Sodom, which started dark, and violent and got worse. Mary was horrified. The man was sick! The story was about a group of four wealthy "gentlemen" who enslaved teenage victims and sexually tortured them. There were about five or six times when Mary threw the book down and seriously thought she might puke.
What sort of gentleman was James Latimer giving a lady a book such as this? She planned many ways of how she was to give him a piece of her mind next time she saw him. But something kept her picking the disturbed book back up again. She read of stories told by prostitutes and the horrors of their lives. It left her wondering if something like this book were real.
Of course James gave her such a book! She realized it in the seconds after she finished the last page. She, Mary Bennet, was not a lady. Not any more than he was a gentleman. So then surely the civilities and formalities one would expect of a lady and a gentleman did not apply. He could recommend books that exposed the harshness and realness of life outside the fairy-tale like life of the upper class.
Why should she pretend that people forced to become prostitutes (for lack of qualifying for any other occupation) did not exist? Lying to yourself about the world like so made you smaller and smaller until you were about as shallow as Lizzy or Jane.
By then dawn was breaking, and Mary hurried downstairs, after shoving the books under the sheet at the foot of her bed. She dared Mrs. Hall or Mrs. Bennet to try and find them there.
She sang quietly as she did her chores. Mary did not have the loveliest voice ever, but it was much better than anyone else's at Longbourn and they had no right to criticize her for it. Mary sewed well. She could do small, even stitches twice as fast as any of her sisters and could finish the entire mending pile before a quarter of an hour. Mary did not know how to embroider, unlike her four sisters. She refused to learn as a child—it would be a cold day in Hell before she would spend time over something like embroidery.
Mary did know how to spin thread, although hers was large and ugly compared to the soft, pretty material Kitty or Jane would make. In short, Mary had only the best voice and the best handwriting—that was it.
And when she had ran out of chores to do, she filled the bucket up at the well and doused it with lye soap. She stole the brush from Mrs. Hall's closet and got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the sitting room floor. She then moved on to the entrance hall. Then the kitchen. And then the stairs. And then the back parlor. After completely scrubbing the dinning room floor, she realized that she had ran out of floor to scrub, unless she went up to the second floor.
Her small pale fingers were red from the soap and water and sore from the scrubbing. Mary's hands had never been soft, like a lady's ought to. It was just one more thing that separated her from her sisters. She could recall a public ball that the five girls attended, and they were introduced in order. The four ladylike Bennet girls had pale, soft, perfect, white hands. The day before Mary had been polishing every piece of furniture in the house for penance of missing church one Sunday (she was too busy being lost in the woods) and she got to show off her blistered, bleeding, oozing hands, that had swollen too big for any of her gloves.
No, Mary never had nice hands anyway.
Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Bennet later came bustling about, not even noticing how Mary was collapsed upon the loveseat in exhaust.
The next week, Mrs. Bennet came rushing home from Meryton her face flushed with happiness. Mary regarded her coldly, but she took little notice of it.
"Mary!" Mrs. Bennet grasped her daughter's shoulders, "I have received word from Lizzy!"
"How perfectly lovely," Mary said distastefully, "And to what do we owe such stimulation on your behalf?"
Mrs. Bennet shoved an opened letter into her hands, "We are to join Kitty at Pemberly!"
"And am I to stay with my aunt Philips whilst you and Mr. Bennet are away, madam?" Mary asked, uncertainly. She did not like her aunt very much, nor did her aunt like her. It would be a long, dreadful visit.
"Oh, goodness no, Mary! You are to come also! Lizzy insists on it! Read the part…" Mrs. Bennet opened the letter and pointed to the third paragraph, "She says, 'I have become truly at a loss of what to think if my dear sister Mary were to miss it. I conjecture that she will likely gravely recline, but do convince her otherwise.' You see? You are to come, Mary! And Jane and Mr. Bingley as well!"
The blood drained from her face. Pemberly! Why on earth would Lizzy want her to join her at Pemberly? It made so little sense, that Mary, yes, even, smart, knowing Mary was absolutely clueless. She stumbled to the nearest chair and gaped down at her lap, but Mrs. Bennet took no notice and was quickly off again to spread the news.
"Mr. Bennet, Mr. Bennet!" she called, lifting her skirts and waving the letter.
Mary forlornly packed her things in a small trunk. A few day gowns (most of them black or gray) a shawl, her black gloves, her parasol, her under things, her nightclothes, and enough books to keep her occupied for her stay. Gulliver's Travels, Camilla, Evelina, and The Italian. She also threw in Jane's small book of poetry, last minute.
When she sat on her trunk, throwing all of her slight body against it, forcing it to close and then latched it. She wore her dark gray traveling dress with her black bonnet and with her pale pallid skin and unhealthy looking light brown eyes, she dubbed herself rather unapproachable—they way she liked to appear. She even bothered opening her trunk again to throw in Lizzy's vial of perfume—just because it was so pretty to look at.
She tried to make the best of her situation. As much as she found her two elder sisters a waste of time, they were not unkind. No, they were perfectly civil, weren't they? It would not be so unbearable. And Kitty would be there. Kitty, the closest thing Mary ever had to a friend.
The next morning the carriage was brought around to the front and Mary helped her father load it, never mind if it wasn't a lady's job. As they passed through Meryton, Mary interrupted with a speech on how she had to return something of Mrs. Coleman's.
She jumped from the carriage and looked about Mrs. Coleman's house. The yard was empty. She put both Common Sense and 120 Days of Sodom into the window boxes around back. She scribbled a quick note:
Observe your window boxes.
-M. Bennet
Mary then did a very unladylike thing. She lifted her skirt and climbed up the rose trellis behind Mrs. Coleman's house. Do not look down, she thought calmly, Do not look down and you shall not fall. She did not fall. The window on the second floor she peered in was the bedroom from which she had seen James retrieve the books. She stuck the note in the window skeleton, the writing side pressed against the glass where he would see it.
Climbing down was harder. She fell the last eight feet and it hurt her rear end considerably. She brushed herself off and hurried back to the carriage waiting by the road.
They rode all day and stopped only to eat dinner on a hill in the countryside. The sun was merciless and Mary sat miserably in the grass, throwing bits of her biscuit at the birds. It might have been a beautiful day in a beautiful country meadow, but she did not notice it. Honestly, she preferred nice dark clouds and cool rain.
They ate supper at an inn and was were they spent the night. The next day they woke bright and early and did mostly the same thing again. It was horribly boring, and Mrs. Bennet never ran out of things to say. Mary would have liked to sit out by the manservant driving the thing, had that been appropriate, where at least he did not have to listen to the woman's chatter.
They saw a good deal of fresh English countryside. Mary had hoped they'd pass by a caravan of gypsies or something to make the trip slightly interesting, which they saw no such thing. Only farms, meadows, and towns. How far was Pemberly anyhow?
On the evening of the third day, Mr. Bennet posed the question, "We may either stop now, as it grows dark, or continue on to Pemberly and perhaps arrive at an exceedingly late hour."
"Oh, let us stop!" Mrs. Bennet sighed, "I cannot take another hour in this carriage, let us arrive upon the morning, Mr. Bennet."
"We shall go on," Mary decided for them both, "Another hour or two is not so long and it will move this trip faster."
"I do hope Lizzy forgives us for arriving so late and we'll likely wake them all up!" Mrs. Bennet worried, "I suppose apologies…"
"You may apologize, madam, but I shall not," Mary began a speech, " Did not Mrs. Darcy ask us to come in such a amorous way (even if amorous she did not feel) and she shall accept however we act upon arriving. If she was only acting amorous to appear in the least bit civil, she must now consent to her actions and perhaps she shall learn better next time."
"What a cruel thing to say!"
Mary shrugged and looked back out the window, though she could see nothing but the reflection of her own face and her parent's in the dark window. And it was an hour and forty-five minutes until their carriage pulled in through the front gate of Pemberly. Mary got out, stretching her legs and stared up at the house.
It was large, to be sure. And very grand. Too fancy. Obviously built long ago by someone who had more money than taste. But it was a bed with clean sheets, wasn't it? So Mary looked upon it eagerly. The front yard was large and stately, with the carriage-road along the side. The grounds, themselves were large, stretching many acres. Mary cared little for nature.
The door knockers were knocked, and a tired-looking housemaid answered it, beckoning they come in, once she realized who they were. She introduced herself as Mrs. Reynolds.
"My mistress said not to expect you until tomorrow," she said, conversationally.
The inside was the most futile inside of a house Mary had ever set eyes upon. It was even worse than Netherfield. Well, some might find it agreeable. Mary did enjoy looking at the art. There were many paintings on the walls. In the main sitting room, a large portrait hung, obviously of Mr. Darcy.
Mary looked up at it and eyed it sternly. The picture was about four feet by three feet large, and placed in the center of the wall, not in any way hidden.
"What sort of man hangs a larger-than-life sized picture of himself in his parlor?" Mary demanded, before she could stop herself.
Mrs. Reynolds coughed to pass the moment over, and led them on without a word as if nothing had ever happened. Mary took one last look at the portrait. What a conceited ass… Normal people don't think themselves so wonderful as to hang such a thing on their wall!
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were showed to their chambers on the second floor, while Mrs. Reynolds escorted Mary up another flight of stairs. And then another.
"This is the room Mrs. Darcy picked. I'm afraid it was the last available room, otherwise we would not be putting a guest there," she explained, holding up her candle, for the stair case they now climbed was not like its predecessors. It was narrow and dark.
"We've got quite the full house." This woman was talkative herself, "Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, Miss Bingley, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst. And both Miss Bennets, of course," she listened them all off.
The finally reached the very top floor of the house, the attic if you will, and Mary looked around by what she could see by candle light. It was mostly just a long, dark hallway. The floor creaked under their shoes. Mrs. Reynolds opened a door and set the candle down on the end table.
It was average-sized, much like Mary's chamber at Longbourn. The ceiling was low and the wallpaper faded. The furniture was dusty and old, as if no one had entered this room in years.
"This shall do nicely," Mary said coldly, and Mrs. Reynolds nodded and lit a few candles.
"Good night, Miss Bennet."
There were a few windows on each wall, which Mary instantly forced open with all of her strength. She pulled the covers off of the bed first. The dust all came up and coated the back of her throat. She coughed and gagged for a while.
She shook them forcefully out the window getting most of the dust out. She put them back on the bed, but found that they were still so dirty she could hardly bring herself to touch them for very long.
Sighing, she pulled the wooden chair over to the open window. She knelt on the chair and rested her elbows on the windowsill. Cool wind blew in her face pushing her hair back. Of course she would be given this room. Who liked Mary Bennet, anyway?
Suddenly, the wind from outside blew in and extinguished every candle Mrs. Reynolds had lit. The room began dark, but her eyes adjusted soon enough. She stared up at the moon and stars. Perhaps they liked her…
Mary Bennet fell asleep with her head on the windowsill, cold air blowing in, still in her traveling clothes and bonnet.
Upon waking, she heard something small scurry across the floor. She sat up instantly. Her neck was sore, her back was sore, and her head ached something awful. A mouse. The mouse reappeared but then saw her and ran. Mary leapt out of the chair and tried to catch it in her hands but it disappeared into a hole in the wall.
Wonderful. Mary had been invited to stay at Pemberly, the nicest house for quite a few counties, and which room is she given? The dusty, mice-infested one in the attic! Mary dressed herself with new hate for her sister, Elizabeth.
In the light of day, the room did not look much better. Mary could see enough to realize that the wallpaper was indeed a dark green color. She walked down four flights of stairs and to the sitting room where everyone had gathered before breakfast.
Indeed, they were all there. Jane and Bingley sat by the window with Mrs. Hurst and her husband. Lizzy and Mr. Darcy sat in the center of the room. Lizzy wore the nicest looking dress Mary had ever seen her in. Well, she did have a rich husband. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet spoke with them, while Kitty and Miss Bingley sat at a table to their own, not looking happy with each other.
Miss Bingley was four-and-twenty. A full seven years older than Kitty, who was only seventeen. She was a fairly pretty woman, Mary allowed her that much.
"Ah, and here is our Mary now. Well, technically Miss Bennet now, isn't she?" Mrs. Bennet acknowledged her.
"Good morning, madam," Mary said coldly, just standing like a shadow in the doorway.
"Sister," Kitty raced up to embrace her, an embrace to which Mary replied to. It was good to see Kitty again. Dear Kitty, who did not judge her as others did…
"How have you been fairing during your visit?" Mary whispered in her ear.
"Oh, horribly!" was her answer, "But do not say that. Lizzy and Mr. Darcy are fine, Pemberly is fine, but it is that awful Miss Bingley. I fear I shall lose all self-control and strangle her!"
"I am here now, although I am not sure if that is much of a comfort to you," Mary said, as they linked arms, "Have you heard from Lydia?"
"Have I?" Kitty smiled, "And she signs each letter 'Mrs. Wickham.' One would think she would realize that it is no news that she is a married woman now."
"Oh, Mary!" Lizzy exclaimed, "I am sorry for your room. We have only got one left and that was promised to Mr. Ashby weeks ago. He shall be arriving tomorrow."
"I rather like it, madam," Mary responded, causing her sister to eye her with surprise. Mary had never been very pleasant to her, but never called her "madam" either. Well, Mary was angry.
Breakfast was all well enough, and the guests at Pemberly all prattled about unimportant things. Amidst it all, Mary managed to still think intelligent thoughts. Miss Bingley was abhorrent—Kitty was not exaggerating. All so uppity and conceited. Mary wanted to strangle her too. But they were the three unmarried young ladies and were expected to sit together most of the day.
The following day, Mr. Ashby arrived. He was young, maybe five-and-twenty, and was skinny and shy-looking. Mary eyed him skeptically. Lizzy grinned at her and whispered in her ear, "I invited you knowing he was coming. Wouldn't he be a fine husband?"
Mary saw it all plainly now. They all knew that Kitty would find a husband soon enough anyhow. It just left Mary. Lizzy assumed Mary would never marry unless she found someone else who would likely never marry and put them together. And the result was this chicken-like, stupid, shy, Mr. Ashby.
She turned her hard gaze to her sister's laughing one, "Indeed, madam." Mary turned on her heel and walked away. Of course! Oh, of course! she thought, Did I not wonder why I was to come here? It never made sense… until now. Everything does happen for a reason. Lizzy thinks I'll marry that man because I'll be too desperate not to!
And so Mary realized the only reason she had been invited to Pemberly.
End Chapter
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