Title- Mary

Author- 4give4get

Rated- T

Disclaimer- I do not own Mary—she owns me.

Serena- Thanks for reading. I can't believe how successful Mary was.

Chapter Nine…

Mary always planned on leaving Meryton one day or another. And the day she finally realized that she truly must go, was the day when James Latimer received word from his mother in Baltimore, asking him to return home. And after Mrs. Coleman and Hannah had retired to bed, Mary commenced in telling him so.

"And where shall you go?" he wanted to know—no smile decorated his face.

"Back to London," Mary answered, "I will be fine—I always have been."

"And so this is how it ends?" James demanded, "I go back to America and you live in London as a housemaid for the rest of your life?"

"Nothing is set in stone—and why does that matter to you?" Mary countered, placing her hands on her hips.

"Can you honestly ask that?" he stipulated rather angrily, "Honestly?"

"I am being perfectly honest, Mr. Latimer, I assure you that," Mary said coldly, turning so she did not face him.

And then he did look truly hurt. He sat down in a chair placed in the sitting room in which they were having this conversation, and rubbed his temples, staring rather dismally at his feet. As Mary looked at him, she actually did feel some sort of remorse for what she had said. And know this, if the gentle reader does not yet—Remorse is not something Mary feels often.

Mary was unfamiliar with feeling remorse, and unfamiliar with apologizing. Usually, she felt no need to, why apologize when she did nothing wrong? But this time it was definitely necessary. She had said something wrong. So she carefully approached him, meticulous not to make sudden movements, lest that make the situation worse yet.

"Are you quite alright?" she asked him softly.

"Mary," he said quietly, "Do you want to go to London?"

"Does it matter what I want?" Mary shook her head, "We all have to do things we don't want to, you know."

Thunder rumbled above them. They both glanced at the window, which was spotted with thick raindrops, and the whole sky lighted up in an electric blue as the lightning flashed. Mary realized it must be the last summer storm of the year.

"But, Mary," James grabbed her hand before she could pull it back, and held it in his own. Mary felt her cheeks instantly turn red at the sight of it her own heart sped up, "You don't have to go to London! No, there is a way…"

"And what way is that?" Mary interrupted shrilly, "I must go!"

She did wonder just what was happening. He was calling her by her given name—something he had never done before. He was touching her too—holding her hand.

"Mary, you needn't go all the way back to London. No," he swallowed deeply and then brought his gaze up to meet hers, "I love you."

She didn't blink. She didn't do anything, actually. Mary was at a total loss of what to do or say, in fact. Something that did not happen often. She had read of scenes much like this in many novels, and had always question their veracity as she did a Shakespeare play. She never suspected it might happen to her. Finally, after about five seconds of thought, she realized what to do.

Now, our heroine is not as other heroines. Mary Bennet did not believe in love. Perhaps in some cases it is convenient to be with someone, which is how people end up married somehow. But, love? Not at all. In novels, the hero and heroine are in love the second they meet each other's eyes. Mary laughed at the folly of that. And she had always thought that James realized such things did not exist, either.

She explained this to him.

He smiled slightly, and took her other hand as well, "My love for you is not as love is written of in novels! I did not love you the instant I set eyes on you. I thought you an interesting character, but I did not even love you until weeks later."

"I—I…" Mary stuttered, pulling her hands away, slipping her fingers across his flesh, "Excuse me."

She quickly turned on her heel, her braid swinging behind her, and left the room. Outside, the rain was falling down harder than ever, dark spots were made on her gown before it was completely soaked, as was her hair. The air was warm, but the rain was cold, clearing her mind. The wind blew strongly, causing the rain to fall at a slanted angle. Thunder struck again, startling Mary to the very core of her being. Not a second later the lightning struck again, followed by more rumbling thunder. The rain continued to fall in torrents.

She ran down the path and down the street, really running just to feel herself breathing so heavily and to hear her pulse in her temples. James Latimer loved her. It was the main thought running through her head, not to mention, the only. It didn't make sense for James to love her, did it?

The cold drops dripped down her face and off of her nose, like freshwater tears. As she stopped and stood in the center of the street, she tucked her arms around her body to conceal her heat to stop the shivers that were racking her whole body. Her wet hair stuck to her forehead.

Well, why not? Was she incapable of deserving it or something? For most of her life, she'd considered herself unnecessary. If she were suddenly gone, no one would miss her. She'd lived with that notion for nineteen years—the gentle reader must understand that. But she couldn't be redundant if someone loved her. The dark cloudy sky sparked up in a bright bolt of lightning, lighting up the street.

For a fraction of a second, Mary could see the houses and shops on both side of the street, and even make out detail and color. And it was as if something had turned a light on inside of her. Her whole life cleared up, the darkness lifted, just as the lightning did. It was not complicated at all! James Latimer loved her.

"I love him," she whispered, her mouth feeling the words. And suddenly, her thoughts went straight back to the last she saw him—his form sitting in the chair back in Mrs. Coleman's parlor. She felt her eyes go as wide as eggs and she jumped when the thunder sounded. The rain fell harder and harder and began to feel to Mary as if the drops might penetrate her skin.

She turned around and ran back to Mrs. Coleman's but when she opened the door and breathlessly leaned her weight against it so it may close, she saw the parlor was empty. Mary glanced around frantically, but James's tall frame was not there. She felt her heart sink, perhaps she lost him.

"Mary? Is that you?" someone asked, but Mary turned to see that it was not James. Mrs. Coleman dressed in only her nightgown and holding a candle for light, crept her way down the stairs, "Don't be alarmed, child. I was only curious to see who was entering my house at this time of night."

Mary realized that she must have slammed the door behind her, "I am sorry I woke you," she said, "But it is only me."

Mrs. Coleman looked at her closely as she approached her at the front door. Mary was not quite as tall as her, but their size was relatively the same. Mrs. Coleman had blue eyes that examined her like a horse at the market. Mary did not know what the old woman had in her head, causing her to think her so interesting.

"You look troubled," she noted.

"I assure you it is nothing, madam," Mary said calmly.

"Not tired?" she woman asked, leading her down the hall into the kitchen, "Would you like a cup of tea, perhaps?"

Mary decided protesting more would be worth nothing and acquiesced to her by pulling up a stool to the hearth. A mug was placed in her hands, and Mrs. Coleman poked the fire with an iron rod. The steam from the cup warmed her hands and face and the thunder sounded again.

"Mrs. Coleman," Mary began, "Can I ask you of something?"

"Certainly, dear," was her reply, "Although I do not promise to be able to answer you for it well."

"That is just as well," she replied, "I only need a confidante, can you keep a secret?"

"I believe so—or I always have trusted so."

"Well, your nephew and I were speaking earlier," Mary said, staring at the marred reflection on the surface of her dark tea, "And we spoke of his and my leaving both."

"Indeed, his mother does want him back," Mrs. Coleman put in.

"And I plan on leaving for London by then," she added quickly, then continued, "But as I told him of this, he said… he said lot's of things."

"And what did he say, child?"

"I'm not sure, but I think he implied for me to go to Baltimore with him," There. She had said it. Slowly, Mary looked up to see her confidante's reaction to the last statement. Surprisingly to her, she looked rather amused.

"That certainly is something," she agreed, taking a sup from her steaming mug, "Does he really love you, Mary?"

Mary sighed, "That's just it—I don't know. What do I know about love, anyway?"

"At nineteen?" Mrs. Coleman chuckled, "Very little, I'll allow. What did he say exactly?"

"Well," she racked her brain, trying to recall the awkward memory, "He asked me if it was what I wanted to go to London. I said it didn't matter. And then he said I didn't have to go. I was confused, and then he said he loved me."

"And that's it," Mary ended.

"What did you say back after that?" Mrs. Coleman continued her questioning.

"Well—I suppose I left," Mary bit her lip, remembering that as well.

"Ha!" the woman began to laugh at the notion, hardly taking care not to spill her tea, "My poor, poor nephew. I wonder how he's fairing after that sort of insult!" She continued into random bubbling laughter.

"I didn't mean to insult him!" Mary cried.

"I'm sure you didn't. Well, is that the whole story?"

She sighed, "No, not quite. I think I might love him too."

"I see," Mrs. Coleman said, quietly, obviously deep in thought, "And how do you recognize love when you claim to know nothing about it?"

Mary took a long drain of her tea, to pass over the moment. It was still rather hot for such a large gulp and the boiling liquid burnt the roof of her mouth and tongue, and scorched her throat and insides as she swallowed. She quickly put the cup down on the hearth's floor surface.

"And is that the whole story?" she asked.

"Well, no," Mary said again, "I need help. What if I do love him?"

"Then you love him," she said curtly, "It's not complicated, Mary."

"So you think I should go to Baltimore with him?" Mary could hardly believe what she was hearing, somehow. America?

"If it is what you want, why shouldn't you?" Mrs. Coleman said bluntly, "Do you know what I think, Mary?" she did not wait for an answer, but plowed right onward, "I believe that you have been so miserable your whole life, that when you finally see a chance at happiness, you don't even recognize it."

Her lips were parted and she simply stared ahead, "But how do I know?" she begged.

"Well, why do you love him?" Mrs. Coleman asked.

"I love him because…I suppose I don't even know why," Mary considered this.

"That does not sound like a good sign, but really it is," Mrs. Coleman informed her, "Perhaps if you listed off things about his personality it might sound as though you truly do love him, but people change. Nothing is forever."

"I know."

"And I have lived on this earth for seven-and-fifty years, Mary," the woman continued, "I like to believe that I might know a fair amount of it. In my experiences, I have found this much—that which is unquestionable is often most vulnerable."

"I do not understand," Mary said.

"Well, would you consider your love for my nephew unquestionable?"

"Not at all."

"There you are then," Mrs. Coleman finished, "In order to fall in love with someone, you must find them agreeable. In order to stay in love with someone, you must know all of their flaws but be able to look past them at the same time."

Mary stared into the fire raging in the hearth, as the flames danced and licked the edges. The thunder and rain continued, but her thoughts raced with the new information Mrs. Coleman had given her. Mary felt like she might burst into tears, as she looked at the old woman's kind face. When Mary first saw her back in June, she never would have guessed that such a scene as that would take place between them. Well, who would have?

And Mary had never had such a conversation with anyone. Certainly not with Mrs. Bennet, who certainly never felt any motherly affection towards her at all past the age of ten years or so. Mary's conversation subsisted of only Kitty and Lydia, who of course, were both younger than her.

Mrs. Coleman patted her back and stood to leave, "Just think on what I have said before you make your decision."

"I will."

Mary watched as the fire consumed the logs within the hearth and listened as the rain continued. She still wore her still-damp gown, and stood for a second only to find a shawl to wrap around her shoulders before she resumed her seat by the heat of the fire. She pondered until her tea grew cold and the fire eventually died out.

.x.X.x.

The very next morning, Mary woke with a horrible cold. She was tired and had a pounding headache. Serves her right for staying up so long in wet clothing. She buried her head under the pillows and resolved never to come out again.

The world was a trivial place. People got hurt and were unkind. Who needed it, anyway? For the most part of the day, Mary simply nursed her physical wounds and her mental anguish, which was much more painful than the former. Physical pain… the kind of pain you can breath through. How insignificant it was!

Mary realized that if the world were the size of an apple in her hand, she would be inclined to squeeze it and crush it until it crumbled into a million pieces. She even imagined doing so.

And one thing did go right. The rain had still not cleared up, and the gray sky continued to drop the windy rain. The storm was lovely. Sweet smelling, wet air drifted in through the half-ajar window and it lightened Mary ever so slightly. She even crawled her pitiful self out of bed to sit by the window and watch the tree branches blow and dance to nature's song.

I wish I could be one of those leaves and just let the wind carry me around. I could be part of something that beautiful. But the life of a leaf is not very far from that of a human's. It is born, and reared on the tree from which it was born. After the leaf is full-grown and it's great green color, it will begin to change. Humans change too. It will turn to beautiful shades of yellow and orange or occasionally red, before the wind eventually rips it from everything it ever knew. Life carries a human around as wind does a leaf. Until the wind dies away and the snow comes. And the following generations live their own lives before joining you in the soil.

Mary dressed and went downstairs where she helped Hannah peel the potatoes. She did not see Mrs. Coleman nor James. Mary inquired after their whereabouts.

"Missus must be in her chambers," reasoned Hannah, "And Master Latimer… I know not where he could possibly be."

She nodded, and continued helping in the kitchen, her headache was not getting any less severe. Mary thought she might actually go mad from frustration. She cleaned things in which that did not even need to be cleaned. She would wipe down anything she could get her hands on. Hannah noticed—she raised her eyebrows and decided it better to say nothing.

And after what must have been hours, Mary randomly peaked out the window to finally see the weary shape of James Latimer walking up the pathway in the rain. Mary flung open the door and dashed to meet him, hardly noticing the raindrops. Well, she already had a cold, didn't she? They practically collided, and Mary shyly smiled at him. A smile, which was not returned.

"Where were you this morning?" she asked softly, feeling the effects of being in his presence once again.

"Taking a walk," he said, and looked at her with such a sad look, that Mary wanted to burst into tears for him. It hit her straight at her heart and hurt quite badly.

Mary cleared her throat silently, "Mr. Latimer, you must forgive me—"

"Do not call me that," he begged her, "Give me my name. I would just like to hear you say it once, even if you go to London and I back to America."

The look on his face and the way his blue eyes bore into her, moved her so much, that she reached up to touch his face, but a second later thought better of it and stopped before she actually touched him and leaned her face closer, "James," she whispered.

He slowly closed his eyes, and Mary could hear him breathing as well as herself, "Mary, I beg you, I implore you…"

"You need to listen to me," she interrupted him, "It is no use to deny it any more—I love you. I do! I have since you told me off that night from my chamber windows, and—"

And then Mary herself was interrupted. James's large, gentle hands held her shoulders and pulled her to him. His iron embrace was locked around her, and she had never felt more content. Such is the feeling of pure bliss—to stand and just hold the person you love above all else and think of nothing and listen to the cool rain fall. And that is the moment our strong, brave, courageous heroine had finally experienced. And she experienced true happiness itself.

It is true. Mary Bennet's story does not begin so happily and as it does begin, it continues to promptly get worse. But when someone stays strong through it all and manages to live to the part where she finally is happy and content and in all triumph—then (and only then) does she receive the title of heroine.

The first thing Mary did after the moment had ended was suit up for the two-mile walk to Longbourn. She would marry James Latimer and live with him in Baltimore, America. And of course she would need her clothing and books, which unfortunately happened to be sitting in Longbourn.

Unless Mrs. Bennet got rid of it all, and then in that case, I am walking this far in the rain, sick with a cold and headache just to have her and that bloody Mrs. Hall shriek at me about how I'm unnatural and mad and should be locked up forever.

But Mary braved the journey anyhow. And she even smiled to see the ever-so-familiar surroundings of her childhood home. She had ran and screamed in those very hills she passed. She had climbed those trees, and picked the grandparents of those flowers to use them to decorate her chamber. As she climbed up the front steps, she remembered all of the times she'd spend there, ghosts of herself.

She breathed deeply before she knocked on the door with her left fist. Mary ardently hoped no one would be home. But no, she heard Mrs. Bennet's familiar squawking for someone to open the door, and many rushed footsteps. When the door did swing open, it was Mrs. Hall who stared face to face with Mary and her face instantly turned deathly pale, as if witnessing the appearing of a ghost and let out a blood-curdling shriek.

Mary regarded her coldly, and considered shoving the woman out of the doorway so she might gather her things and leave as quickly as possibly, but figured that could also very possibly make the whole matter worse. Mary rubbed her temples. Would it really not do to shove the woman partially responsible for the month and a half she spent at Haddock's?

Mrs. Bennet flew to the door, and let out a small yelp at the sight of her third daughter standing in the doorway, but was not as Mrs. Hall. Her hand automatically went to her mouth and her eyes went as large as eggs.

"Mary?" she whispered, "You should be in London."

"Should be, perhaps," Mary allowed, inviting herself in, "But alas, I am not. I am come to gather my things only, madam. It shall only be a minute and you shall never have to see or hear from me again."

"But—but," blustered Mrs. Bennet following her up the stairs, "What will you do? You have no where to go and we both know it!"

"Haven't I?" she shot back, looking down at her mother, before running up the stairs all the faster, "You know nothing of my current situation!"

Mrs. Bennet lifted her skirts above her ankles so she might keep up with her and huffed in irritation, "I'll believe that," she remarked sourly, "When I see it!"

Mary flung open the door to her chambers to find it mostly untouched. Her clothes still hung in the closet, but many of her books had been cleared from the shelf, and piled on the floor, as if someone had taken their arm and swept the whole of the contents off of said shelf. She pulled her small trunk out from under her bed, and began messily throwing things, in while Mrs. Bennet watched from the doorway, her eyebrows creviced in distaste.

"So you shall go to a city like London and become a scullery maid?" Mrs. Bennet demanded, "That is the only possible situation for you now!"

"Even that would be satisfactory before Haddock's!" Mary retorted, beginning to pick up the books as well, "But no, I shall do nothing of the sort."

"Then you shall die penniless on the streets," she said harshly, "And see if I care!"

Mary closed her trunk after placing the beginning of Alice Strider's story on top and approached the woman; she was so close she could even make out every line on her face. Mrs. Bennet was rather taken back and was simply at a loss of words for a following few seconds.

"I am marrying James Latimer," she spat, "I'm going to America. Do you remember when I said that I would never remember you and Mrs. Hall nor this house with anything like happy memories? And if I had the chance to leave it, I would take it with both hands? Well, I shall!"

Mrs. Bennet smirked, "You consented to marry that American? You must've been quite desperate, I can imagine."

Mary turned to face her bed again and picked up her ebony birthday ribbon with two fingers and tucked it in her pocket very slowly before she spoke again.

"I love him," Mary said simply, grabbing the handle on the trunk and facing her mother one last time, "I'm going to live with him because I love him. Good day, madam."

As she began to walk back down the flight of stairs, Mrs. Bennet followed her down there too, "My own flesh and blood is to marry a brash American by her own will?" her voice shot through two octaves, "You could have had Mr. Ashby, you realize. At least he was English. At least he wasn't so coarse…"

And Mary never heard the rest of her speech because she slammed the door and stormed the rest of the way down the garden path, before it was done. She had had enough of that woman for a lifetime.

And gentle Reader—she married him. Before the month of September was over, she was boarding the Isadora-Rosaire the ship that would take them both to America. The night before, Mary had sat up in the room at the inn they had rented for the night and penned a careful letter to Kitty, assuming she was still at Pemberly, seeing as Mary had not seen her anywhere at Longbourn.

When she had finished it, she looked over the see James's sleeping figure and smiled, thinking of all of the times ahead of them. Her thoughts went back to the afternoon she had met him in Mrs. Coleman's parlor, wearing her favorite black gown and wishing she were anywhere but there. It was indeed ironic how the woman she disliked the most in the world (Mrs. Bennet) had brought her to the man she would marry.

How ignorant she had been! And Mary realized that she was likely ignorant still. One's knowledge of the world grows with them, and if one refuses to grow, one becomes small and shallow. Just like old leaves must die away some day to be replaced by new ones, one must replace their ideas and thoughts.

And in this story Mary had learned much about the ways of life, but she would always continue to learn more, certainly. And tomorrow she would board the very ship that would take her to a whole new country and a whole new life—because it was the very beginning of a whole new chapter, of which Mary knew would be better than all its predecessors.

End Chapter

End Story

Serena- Nine chapters, as promised. But sequels, most def. The next story will be called Catherine and will be up in a day or two. Read it if you like.