Author's Note: School's out for the summer! Just kidding, it's not. However, I have finished my big project of the year—my 100-page American Studies honors thesis—and even though I also have an English senior project to finish as well as several term papers and other nonsense, I am pretending like that is not the case. Again, thank you all so much for your lovely, helpful and encouraging reviews. I won't yammer on this time—enjoy!
Disclaimer: Not mine.
August 19, 1798
12 Henry Street
Bath, Somersetshire
Dear Elizabeth,
I apologize for not writing more promptly, but our time in Bath has been taken up with a great many social engagements—far too many, in my opinion, though of course our mother and sister disagree wholly. Since our arrival on the fourth of August, we have been herded from morning visits to dinner parties to balls, and while Katherine is quite overjoyed at having so many opportunities for trivial amusements, I naturally wish for more time in which I may read, write letters, or—my dear sister, I was going to write "practice my music," but of course that is out of the question here, for our lodgings contain no pianoforte.
I am sure neither Katherine nor Mamma have taken the trouble to write to you since we have come away from Longbourn, and so I think it only proper that I acquaint you with the little news I have. I am pleased to report that Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Fitzwilliam are both in very good health, news which I know will be exceedingly welcome to Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy. Their other Bath cousin, Mrs. Hart, is also well, as is her husband. The younger Mr. Hart and his twin sister are perfectly well, and although I understand that the youngest Miss Hart recently suffered from a summer cold, she is now almost fully recovered. Their esteemed father, Dr. Hart, is also very well. And, of course, the three of us here at Henry Street are all in good health.
"Lord!" Kitty exclaimed, peering over her sister's shoulder. "Haven't you ever written a letter before, Mary? You will make Lizzie cry with boredom, detailing who is well and who is not!"
Mary regarded her sister with stately annoyance. "This is the business of family correspondence, Katherine. The health of one's relations must always be of the utmost interest to the devoted family member."
"It would be interesting if somebody were dying, but when everyone is healthy it is only ever dull," Kitty grumbled. "Here, give me the pen."
"I will not!" Mary jerked her arm away from her sister's grasping hand. "Let go! Mamma!"
"Oh, let her write something, Mary, Lizzie is as much her sister as yours," Mrs. Bennet groaned, pressing a cold compress to her head. Having enjoyed four glasses of wine the night before, Mrs. Bennet was suffering from a nervous attack this morning.
"She will take up all the paper with news of the silly ball," Mary protested, but Kitty had gotten hold of the quillpen and pulled the writing-paper toward her.
"Indeed I shall, and it will be far more interesting than your reports on everybody's health," Kitty said triumphantly, bending over the letter.
Dearest Lizzie,
This is Kitty writing, and I thought I had better cut in now before Mary bores you to death. I am very sorry for not writing a letter of my own, but we have been so busy that I have scarce had time to catch my breath! Bath is a marvelous town and I hope I shall never have to leave, although of course I know Papa will call us all home before October, or November at the latest.
We went to a ball last night, where we met a great many friends. I wore my yellow muslin with the white sash, which I have not worn all summer, and Mamma says I was very much admired. I danced five full dances, including two with Mr. Price, a very handsome acquaintance of Rosamond's, who has a house in London but comes to Bath every year. I have now met him three times and am sure I am going to marry him.
If not, I imagine I shall marry Mr. Hart (the younger, of course). I danced with him once last night. He is not so amusing nor so handsome as Mr. Price, nor does he have a house in Town, but he is very agreeable and Mamma says that would be an excellent match, if I could not get Mr. Price. But I am determined to get Mr. Price—he has already told me that he likes me exceedingly, and I think I could make him fall in love with me quite easily. I shall write again and let you know how things progress.
"Mamma," Mary complained, "she is only writing of Mr. Price."
"And why shouldn't she?" Mrs. Bennet replied, beaming at her younger daughter. "She danced twice with him last night! He must even now be falling in love with you, my dear—he will make you an offer by Michaelmas, and by Christmas I shall have four daughters married!"
"Two dances does not constitute a proper courtship," Mary said, scandalized. "We know nothing of his character or his moral values, and a marriage made in haste is the most dangerous kind. As Mr. Fordyce reminds us, 'There is nothing so transient, as the enthusiasm of—'"
"If I were you, Miss Mary, I would hold my tongue," Mrs. Bennet interrupted sharply. "I am still ashamed of the way you behaved to poor Mr. Hart last night—imagine, refusing his first offer of a dance! If you are not careful, you will be known all throughout town as a horrid bluestocking. A spinster in the making, they will call you, and I don't imagine you would like that at all."
"He never offered; he merely asked me if I ever danced," Mary answered, with great dignity.
Kitty snorted. "Lord, how ignorant you are, Mary. That is how a gentleman begins the question."
Mary's face went red, but she could not think of a suitable reply and instead she viciously seized the pen and paper from Kitty again. Her sister, having recorded everything she deemed necessary, did not mind letting them go.
Dear Elizabeth,
This is Mary, again. My dear sister, I am sure you had nothing but good intentions in persuading our father to send us to Bath for a few months, but I am afraid your intervention in the case was something of a misstep. As you can see, our time here has done nothing to improve Kitty's mind or manners; if anything, being surrounded by so many gentlemen and so many amusements has only made her more thoughtless and imprudent. While I am loath to hint at the topic of our youngest sister's unfortunate marriage, I am sure you will understand that I do so only out of the utmost concern for Katherine's moral development. Do you really think it wise for us to spend more time than we already have in such a dangerous environment? I beg you will write to our father so he may hurry our return home, for you are the only one whose opinion he will consider seriously on such a subject. I would not be content to stay in Bath past Michaelmas, at the very latest.
"What are you writing now, Mary?" Kitty demanded, leaning closer. Mary, realizing that her chosen subject could only create a disturbance in the Henry Street household, reflexively bent to cover her writing.
"I am," she said carefully, "inquiring after the health of everybody at Pemberley."
"Oh, Lord," Kitty groaned, falling back into her chair.
At any rate, sister, I hope you will write back to me with a favorable answer regarding the concerns I have raised. In addition, I hope that you, Mr. Darcy, Miss Darcy and of course little Sophia are all very well. I eagerly await your reply.
With love,
Mary
The morning had dawned bright and sunny, with a warm breeze that felt more like springtime than late summer. Mary, sealing and addressing the letter to Elizabeth, gazed out the window and imagined what the day must look like at Longbourn—the grass rippling gently in the breeze, the blue sky arching over the green meadows, perhaps the very first leaves beginning to delicately take on their autumn hues. She sighed, resting her chin in her hand.
The beauty of the morning notwithstanding, Mrs. Bennet—in deference to her aching head and fluttering nerves—had decided that they would make no visits that day. Kitty, who wanted only to recount the ball anyway, was not particularly bothered by this; it only meant that she would be able to talk of her own triumphs, without being obliged to make way in the conversation for some other young lady who had danced five dances and wished to discuss them. Mrs. Bennet was glad to accommodate her younger daughter.
"If it had not been so improper, my dear, I think he would surely have asked you a third time," she was saying. "But then of course everyone would have talked, and there would have been quite a scandal. Yet I think he was considering it!"
"When I was dancing with Robert, I saw him looking at us," Kitty confessed, glowing with pleasure. "I daresay he was jealous! For directly after supper he asked me again."
"One of the ladies in the tea-room was telling me that he has a house in Town, and drives the finest curricle she ever saw. Perhaps when you are married, he shall buy a barouche! They are so much more convenient for large parties."
"I am sure Lydia would be green with envy, for even if Wickham is so very handsome, Mr. Price is far handsomer."
"And he shall not oblige you to move to some place nobody has ever heard of," Mrs. Bennet agreed. "My dear, I shall come visit you in London every spring, and take your daughters to Almack's, and find them husbands!"
"I am sure Rosamond could not disapprove of him, if she only knew him better," Kitty remarked. She said it rather quietly, for she had not really intended to say it at all, but Mrs. Bennet heard her nonetheless and frowned.
"Disapprove of him! Whatever does she disapprove of him for? To think of anybody disapproving of him, the notion is quite ridiculous!"
"Perhaps," Mary put in, "she thinks him far too forward for a gentleman."
"Forward! What else should he be if not forward? It is the fashion to be forward these days," Mrs. Bennet sniffed. "I am sure Miss Hart means very well, Kitty, but I wish you would not listen so to her advice, for I begin to think her very prosy indeed. It is fortunate she is so beautiful, for otherwise I am sure no man would want her, if she is so dull as she sounds."
Kitty thought this rather unfair to her friend, and opened her mouth to say so. But Mrs. Bennet had already lost interest in discussing Miss Hart, and returned to the more favorable subject at hand.
"But think of having a house in Town, my dear!" she sighed happily, with renewed enthusiasm. "And I am sure he has another house in the country somewhere, as well, for a gentleman with a house in Town must always have a country house. You may be lady of a great estate, like your sisters; how would you like that?"
"Very much," Kitty replied readily, giggling. "Though I am tired of the country, and imagine I should like to stay in London as much as possible."
"Of course you should—who could blame you! And you could dress in all the newest fashions; and you could have Mary come to stay with you."
Mary, who had allowed herself to drift out of the conversation, was jerked abruptly back into it. Kitty was laughing.
"Lord! I am sure Mary would be as dull as ever, even if we were in London; wouldn't you, Mary! Even Mr. Price and I together could not oblige her to enjoy herself, and if you think we could find her a husband, Mamma, you are quite mistaken!"
Mary glared at her sister. "I would not want any husband you could find for me," she said coldly. Kitty stopped laughing, and regarded her woundedly.
"How disagreeable you are this morning, Mary!" Mrs. Bennet chided.
"She is upset at only dancing one dance," Kitty snickered, regaining her good cheer, for a young lady who has danced twice with a handsome gentleman cannot remain wounded for long.
"She would have danced more, if she had been more pleasant," Mrs. Bennet remarked, giving Mary a pointed stare though she ostensibly addressed Kitty. "I am not surprised Mr. Hart did not ask her again. Perhaps if she had smiled at him, even once, the evening might have unfolded differently for her. Perhaps she might even have enjoyed your success, my dear."
Kitty's brow furrowed, for she could hardly imagine Mary and Robert as a romantic equivalent to herself and Mr. Price.
"I am not given to false smiles," Mary replied stiffly.
"Hush, child, whatever are you talking of! A young lady in a ballroom should only ever be smiling!"
"To smile indiscriminately is to invite improper flirtation and familiarity!" Mary retorted. "There is a very applicable line from Mr. Fordyce—"
"Oh, hang Mr. Fordyce, I have no interest in Mr. Fordyce!" Mrs. Bennet cried. "If you are ever to marry, you must learn to comport yourself with ease and charm, not glare about the room and drive away every gentleman who wishes to dance with you! I am sure you do so deliberately to disturb my poor nerves! I should be shocked if Mr. Hart ever approaches you again!"
"I do not care!" Mary exclaimed, flushing. "I do not like dancing, and I do not like talking with gentlemen, and I wish we had not come to Bath!"
Her outburst shocked her mother and sister, but it shocked herself even more; for however true the sentiment, she had never before addressed one of her parents with such crossness. She rose from her chair, smoothing her skirt with slightly trembling hands.
"Excuse me," she said, in a much quieter tone. "I should like to go walking."
"Walking! Where ever do you intend—"
"There is a park along James Street," she anticipated her mother's question. "I understand it is very near the Fitzwilliams'. I will not be very long. I only—I feel I must have some fresh air."
She hurried from the room. In her wake, Mrs. Bennet and Kitty regarded each other with wide eyes and open mouths.
Mary buttoned her spencer hastily as she hurried down the steps of the house, a book under her arm. Her face was still very hot, and she felt as if she could die of shame. Twice, as she walked quickly down the street, she stopped in her tracks and began to turn back, in order to apologize; but then a fresh wave of embarrassment would overcome her and she would feel quite unable to face her mother and sister. To think of herself shouting so childishly—she might as well have stamped her foot like Lydia! Mary gave a slight groan, closing her eyes and clutching her book tightly to her chest.
But the day was truly lovely, even if she was in Bath, and Mary could not be entirely distracted from taking pleasure in the warm sunshine and clear blue sky. Already, completely alone for the first time since she had left Longbourn, she began to feel somewhat refreshed. She could have wished that the carriages would not clatter so as they drove by, and that the people passing her would not chatter so loudly—but the weather was fine, and Mary lifted her face to the cheerful sun.
Mr. Hart had mentioned that Green Park was along James Street, which was—to her relief—among the few streets she could recognize, because it was where the Fitzwilliams lived, and she had visited there several times already in the company of her mother and sister. And so she made her way without much difficulty, although she did once turn left too early, and she kept thinking she had gone too far, and turning back to look again, carefully, at the buildings and streets she had passed, in case she had missed it.
She had not, however; for before very much longer, she came upon a narrow lane lined with trees, beyond which she could see an expanse of green, and beyond that a stretch of water. Thankful, Mary turned into the lane and found herself in a small, neatly-kept park, with a few large trees for shade and a little walking-path following the edge of the Avon. A few pairs of ladies and gentlemen were taking their exercise, but their talk was quiet, if it could be heard at all; even the noise of the city was muted by the still-thick summer foliage of the trees. Though she would have preferred the wide meadows and little lanes of Hertfordshire, Mary allowed herself a small sigh of relief. It was good, she felt, to be somewhere green.
She made her way down toward the bank of the river, enjoying the play of the sunlight upon the small lapping waves, and chose a tree situated somewhat distant from the walking-paths. It was even quieter here, and Mary took an appreciative seat at the base of the tree trunk, closing her eyes and imagining, for a moment, that she was back at Longbourn. She curled her legs beside her (taking care to cover her stockinged ankles with her skirt), settled her book on her lap, and began to read.
The book—Swedenborg's Heaven and Hell—was one Mary had read many times before, for it had been in her father's library since she could remember; and yet she was able to immerse herself in it for nearly an hour before realizing that she had suddenly grown rather chilled. She looked up from the well-worn pages to find that the sky, which had previously been so merrily blue, was grown hazier, and a few darkening clouds had covered the sun. Indeed, it began to look as though it would rain.
Mary had promised her mother she should not be out for very long, and here she had been gone for an hour; she would certainly receive a lecture on the state of her mother's nerves when she returned home. Besides which, Mary thought, her face growing warm again, she certainly ought to apologize for her earlier tantrum. Rising regretfully to her feet, she dusted a few blades of grass from her skirt and adjusted her bonnet.
She wished she was not compelled home so soon; for it had been comforting to spend some time out of doors, with only a book for company. But now, Mary reflected as she made her way up the gentle green slope toward the little lane, she at least knew where she could find some quiet and solitude, if she required it again.
Not, of course, that she expected any such requirement; for sensible Elizabeth could hardly fail to be moved by the arguments Mary had made in her letter, and certainly Mr. Bennet, at his elder daughter's behest, would be summoning his wife and younger daughters home to Longbourn before Mary should again reach such a point of strain. But—in case there was some delay in their departure—she was glad to know of someplace she could go.
As she left the park, however, Mary's thoughts turned from her relief to her embarrassment, and she began considering the apology she must make for her earlier behavior. Her mother was not the type of lady to make such apologies a simple affair for those who must offer them; she was wont to affect an air of affronted dignity, and to treat those who had injured her with frosty silences and haughty glares. Indeed, Mary half-suspected that Mrs. Bennet took some perverse pleasure in acting the wounded party, and she looked forward, with certain dread, to the prospect of being shunned in her own household for the next day or so.
Her mind was so much taken up with this matter that Mary did not see Miss Hart until she had nearly stumbled into her. The young lady was descending the staircase before the Fitzwilliams' door, and had taken the last step just as Mary was passing by. Mary, looking up from the cobblestones, stopped short to avoid a collision; Miss Hart, who had been speaking to her brother on her other side, turned abruptly to see her.
"Why, Miss Bennet!" Miss Hart exclaimed, curtsying swiftly. "Wherever do you walk so fast?"
"I am on my way home," Mary replied, curtsying. "Hello, Mr. Hart."
Mr. Hart gave her a short bow and a small smile.
"Indeed? That is where we are going—to your home, I mean. I had an idea of calling on your family, if they are not gone out."
"They are not.—My mother does not frequently go out on the morning after a ball."
"I see," Miss Hart said solemnly, but there was amusement in her eyes. "But I do hope she is receiving visitors." Mary assured her that this was the case. "May we then walk with you?—Do not be rude, Robert; give Miss Bennet your arm."
Mary tucked Heaven and Hell carefully under her elbow and took Robert's proffered arm.
"Since I know now where you were going, Miss Bennet, I must wonder where you were coming from," Miss Hart said, smiling at her. "Have you been enjoying this lovely morning?"
"Indeed I have."
"And how have you spent it?"
Mary flushed slightly. "At Green Park, Miss Hart; alone with my book."
"That is a very rewarding way to spend a morning," Miss Hart agreed.
"I am pleased to note that you are so quick to follow my advice, Miss Bennet," Robert remarked, regarding her with a raised eyebrow. "Barely twelve hours have passed since I mentioned Green Park to you; what an eager student you are!"
"Such a mention was fortuituous, coming as it did before such a beautiful day," Mary replied, though her blush had not faded. "I imagine I should have been less eager had I awoken to rain this morning."
"And did you find the place as pleasing as I hoped you would?"
"It was very pleasing," Mary admitted, "but I should still prefer to be in Hertfordshire. You must not devote your energy to inducing me to like Bath, Mr. Hart; I am afraid the project is a hopeless one."
"I do not care whether you like Bath, Miss Bennet; I would only wish you to be less than completely miserable while you are in it."
"I suppose that is the genius of the physician," Miss Hart laughed, "to lessen our suffering just enough that it is not entirely unbearable.—Oh don't glare at me, Robert, I am only teasing."
The first drops of rain were speckling the cobblestones as they left the Fitzwilliams', and by the time they turned onto Henry Street, a rather steady downpour was falling. Mary shielded her book as much as possible, and despite the slight protection her bonnet and spencer afforded from the rain, she was glad to reach the steps of the Bennets' lodgings.
Mrs. Bennet appeared in the vestibule as Mary stepped into it, looking infuriated; but whatever reproaches were on her lips faded as she caught sight of the Harts. Her expression shifted rapidly into one of great satisfaction.
"Why, Mary, you did not mention you would be bringing your friends home with you!" Mrs. Bennet cried, smiling broadly. "Dear Miss Hart, dear Mr. Hart, you are very welcome!"
The twins received Mrs. Bennet's welcome with pleasure, and as they were led into the small parlor, were greeted with an exclamation of delight from Kitty, who rose from the settee to give a brief curtsy.
"I am glad so glad you are come, Rose," Kitty chattered, pulling her friend down to sit beside her. "Shall we not discuss the ball? I am sure there is a great deal to be said about it!"
"Is there indeed?" Rosamond laughed. "I can think of nothing which we have not said already, for we spent most of the evening together!"
"Yes, but now we may talk of the ladies' gowns, and the skill of the dancers, and the musicians, and so on, with all honesty; for certainly we were obliged to be polite last night, when we were in company, and now we are not. Did you find Miss Dalton's gown as horrid as I did?"
Rosamond confessed that she had not observed Miss Dalton, and Kitty launched into a detailed description of that young lady's unfortunate ensemble. Mary, about to deliver a stern reprimand to her sister on the nature of gossip, was distracted by Mr. Hart taking the seat beside her.
"I am sure, Miss Bennet, that we may have a more sensible conversation than theirs," he remarked quietly.
"Certainly," Mary agreed, turning to him. (Her mother, she noticed, had slyly disappeared from the parlor.) "Is there any topic which you prefer, sir?"
"I had not given much thought to the matter," Robert replied, with what Mary suspected was mock gravity. "Perhaps you are more prepared than I."
"I have just been reading Swedenborg; shall we discuss theology?"
"Lord! No, for that is a topic which inevitably leads to debate, and I have no love of argument. I would have you choose something rather more commonplace."
"I have no desire for a commonplace conversation," Mary answered, brow furrowed. "If we are to discuss commonplace topics, by which I suppose you mean the weather, society, or even last night's ball, we may as well join my sister and yours. I do not believe conversation should be limited to the commonplace, for in that way one learns nothing of one's conversational partner. Since you have professed a commitment to honesty, I may tell you frankly that I care not whether you find this rain unseasonable, or about your visit to the Fitzwilliams this morning, or whether you found the ball enjoyable."
She stopped abruptly, suddenly aware that she sounded quite rude. Robert, however, was regarding her with interest.
"When did we discuss honesty?" he asked.
"Last—last night," Mary reminded him, faltering somewhat. "While we were dancing. You told me that I was not a good dancer."
"Ah! Yes, I remember."
"I am glad," Mary ventured, "that we have reached a point in our acquaintance at which we may dispense with trivial niceties."
Robert gave her a slight smile. "And this only our third meeting! How quick you are to make friends, Miss Bennet."
Mary stared at him, for this was certainly not the case—but before she could say anything, Kitty interjected, having overheard this last.
"Indeed she is not, Mr. Hart! There are some neighbors of ours in Hertfordshire, whom we have known all our lives, with whom Mary is still exceedingly awkward."
"Katherine!" Mary hissed, reddening. Her sister ignored her.
"I suppose it must be a great compliment to you, Mr. Hart," she went on, prettily, "that you are so quickly taken into Mary's confidence, when she is generally so very reserved. Oh, don't, Mary!" she added, for Mary was glaring at her very fiercely indeed. "I haven't said anything naughty; I can't see why you should scowl at me so!"
"I am sure the compliment is to your sister, rather than to my brother," Rosamond interposed, smiling gently at the red-faced Mary. "Miss Bennet must be a very accomplished judge of character, in order to have discerned my brother's better qualities so easily. I confess, I am still searching for them."
Kitty laughed at this, and Rosamond deftly engaged her in conversation again, this time on the topic of some planned outing for the next day. Mary turned back to Mr. Hart with mingled relief and embarrassment.
"My sister often speaks without consideration," she confessed quietly. "You must excuse her."
"Miss Bennet, you forget that I have siblings of my own," Robert replied. "I am well acquainted with the embarrassment which a family member might unthinkingly produce—or thinkingly, for that matter."
"Not so well acquainted as I am," Mary muttered, and then immediately regretted it. Robert was regarding her with curiosity, and she hastened to cover her mistake. "I only meant that Miss Hart seems to be of a very even temper."
"Rosamond is mild-mannered enough, and Juliet as well," Robert allowed, casting a glance at his sister, "but Helena—she is the eldest—has always been very passionate, and was once known by all our acquaintance for her wildness. And of course my brother suffers from a persistent inability to hold his tongue, which is why he has become a lawyer. The two of them were terrible as children; I believe our parents must have been relieved when Rose and I proved comparatively tranquil, however much we may bicker."
"The ability of two parties to argue, without loss of affection on either side, marks a truly valuable companionship," Mary intoned. "The bonds of familial love are the foundations upon which our civilization is built, and the strength of those bonds determines the strength not of only our family, but of our entire society."
"You speak as though you are quoting from something," Robert remarked, after a slight pause. "Is that truly what you believe?"
"It is," Mary replied, stiffly.
"Then I suppose I agree with you."
"Thank you."
"Or I agree with Mr. Fordyce, or Mr. Johnson, or whomever else you have been reading," he added. Mary fixed him with a rather hard stare, and to her surprise, he gave a small laugh.
Mrs. Bennet, re-entering the parlor at a strategic moment (which she had been able to gauge by listening at the door), attempted to prevail upon the twins to stay for an early tea; but Miss Hart, startled to find the hour grown so late, was apologetic in insisting that they must away. They had promised to meet their sister-in-law in town, and it was already a quarter of an hour past the agreed time.
"And Anne shall not be cross with me, for she is never very cross," Rosamond said, buttoning her spencer, "but she may be disappointed, and that is even worse. —But, Kitty, I shall see you tomorrow; and Miss Bennet, we should love it if you will complete our party."
"She will be delighted," Mrs. Bennet promised, as Mary opened her mouth to refuse whatever it was Rosamond was inviting her to. "Good-bye, Miss Hart; good-bye, Mr. Hart. Has the rain stopped? Here, Miss Hart, you may take my umbrella.—No, no, you shall give it to Kitty tomorrow, and she will bring it home."
Miss Hart thanked her very kindly, handing the umbrella to her brother, and Mr. Hart gave the ladies a bow, before they turned and hurried down the steps into the street, casting wary glances at the sky above. No sooner had the door closed behind them than Mrs. Bennet turned to Kitty.
"And where are you going tomorrow?" she demanded eagerly.
"Oh—only to walk about town," Kitty replied vaguely. "There is a bookshop which Rosamond and her sisters have been meaning to visit, and perhaps we may go to a few other places. I daresay I may need some money, Mamma."
But her mother was not listening. "Rosamond and her sisters!" she repeated with disappointment. "Then neither of her brothers are to join you?"
Kitty replied in the negative, and Mrs. Bennet sighed. "But," she declared, brightening and turning to Mary, "you shall spend the day with the sisters; and that is something. A friendship with a gentleman's sister is one way of securing him; for the judgment of the sister very often guides the judgment of the brother. Look only at Jane and Mr. Bingley—she was a great favorite of his sisters before he ever married her!"
"I should not think it a great compliment to be a favorite of Miss Bingley's," Kitty said, wrinkling her nose.
"Nonsense, child; for she is so very elegant, even if she is unmarried at twenty-four! Mary, my love, I hope you will spend tomorrow making yourself very agreeable to Miss Hart. I daresay she has a particular influence over her brother's opinion; I doubt he shall make any match of which she does not approve."
Mary was prepared to disclaim any such intention, but Mrs. Bennet was already retiring to the parlor. Kitty, to Mary's surprise, was regarding her very thoughtfully, but said nothing.
It was not until much later, when the two sisters were preparing for bed, that Kitty gave voice to her thoughts. "Mamma seems to think you shall marry Robert Hart," she announced, without any prelude, as she took down her hair.
Mary, who had returned to Heaven and Hell, did not look up. "Mamma is only eager to have me married, and Mr. Hart is as good a target as any," she replied. "I am sure her enthusiasm shall fade when she realizes that such an event is unlikely."
She was puzzled when Kitty did not reply immediately, and glanced away from her book to find her sister regarding her curiously. "What?" she asked irritably.
"Nothing," Kitty said airily, "only I do not think it is so unlikely as you think."
Mary rolled her eyes and returned to her reading.
"Really," Kitty went on, insistently, "I begin to think you may be married—not before I am, of course, but very soon after, at least! Robert Hart likes you; he told me last night that he thinks you are interesting, which I meant to tell you earlier but I had forgot. And he goes out of his way to talk to you."
"That is only because you and his sister are usually so engaged that he has no one else to talk to," Mary objected.
"You boasted to me only a fortnight ago that you knew him better than I do," Kitty returned. "You like him, Mary, even if you don't want to admit it!"
"I have no trouble admitting it," Mary said, with dignity. "I do like Mr. Hart. I find his company interesting, if occasionally trying, and his conversation to be above the common class of silly pleasantries. I believe him to be an intelligent gentleman of good principles."
"Lord," Kitty sighed, flopping onto her bed in defeat, "you can even make being in love sound dull as anything!"
"I did not say I was in love with him."
Kitty raised herself onto her elbows, and scrutinized her sister's face carefully for any signs of a telltale blush at the word "love." To her disappointment, she could discern none—although that may have been the fault of the dim candlelight. "You did not have to say so," she said aloud. "I can discern it in all your looks."
Yet Mary's complexion remained unchanged. "I consider Mr. Hart a friend," she responded, closing her book and setting it on the table beside her. "But I do not consider him anything more, and I do not suppose I ever shall." She hesitated slightly, then continued. "I do not wish to be married, Kitty; not now, at least."
"Two more months with Robert," Kitty said confidently, "and your mind shall change." She paused. "And I should like you to know that I am giving him up," she added.
"I thought you only loved Mr. Price," Mary said drily.
"I do, but I had been thinking that if I could not marry Mr. Price, I should marry Robert; that is what I wrote to Lizzie. But I shall give Robert up entirely, for it would not do to steal a sister's beau."
"He is not my beau."
"La! I think he is, even if you won't admit it, and so I shall think of him no longer, except as Rosamond's brother, and I suppose as my future brother." She leaned forward and blew out the candle. "Goodnight, Mary."
"Goodnight," Mary murmured, and rolled over onto her side.
Kitty's breathing was deep and even with sleep before very long, but Mary found herself unable to drift off. Instead, she lay awake, gazing at the rain outside the window and considering her sister's words.
If Mary were a proper heroine, this would have been the moment in which she realized that she was in love with Robert Hart, or at least very well on her way to being so. Such a revelation would have provoked any number of responses—a gasp of surprise, a sudden jolt out of her bed, perhaps even tears. She would have resolved to make her feelings known to their object, and perhaps Mrs. Bennet's fondest wish would have come true, in that she would have had all five daughters married before another month went by.
Yet Mary is not a proper heroine, and this is not that type of story. Instead of realizing that she was deeply in love with her hero, Mary lay quietly in the darkness, wondering why she was not.
Did she not find Robert Hart's company easier to bear than that of any gentleman she had ever known? Did she not find him agreeable, sensible, interesting, even occasionally amusing? Was she not refreshed by his forthrightness, by his disdain for idle chatter? Did she not even—when she obliged herself to consider the matter—find him handsome? Certainly, she was aware of the intelligence in his gray eyes, the careless sweep of his fair hair, the strong line of his jaw, his tall frame and broad shoulders. (At this last thought, Mary felt herself blush slightly, for she was not used to thinking of gentlemen in such terms.)
She had heard Lydia and Kitty sigh over many such men, and even many far stupider and less handsome men, for much of her life; and she had always promised herself that she should never indulge in such meaningless attractions, but should only ever form an attachment to a man of sense and education—a man for whom she could have a deep and honest respect. Was not Robert Hart precisely such a man?
With a sigh, Mary turned over in her bed. She had not been unaware of her mother's hopes for her marriage (Mrs. Bennet, after all, had no great genius for subtlety) but for whatever reason, she had not considered such hopes to be serious until Kitty had begun talking about them. Now that she had been explicitly confronted with the prospect of marriage, she found herself curiously uneasy. The thought of tying herself eternally to someone else—to be dependent on another, to have another dependent on her—to give up her long solitary days, her reading, perhaps even her music—Mary's heart began to beat rather quickly and she turned onto her back, gazing at the ceiling with wide eyes.
She attempted to calm herself. Their acquaintance, as yet, was a short one; Robert Hart had not made a proposal; he had not even hinted at such an attachment; and unless he did so, which she found unlikely (whatever Kitty may say), she could have no cause to worry. Furthermore, she reasoned, even if she were to marry him, he surely would not force her to give up the things he knew she enjoyed. He had made none of those abominable comments which gentlemen sometimes made, about the unsuitability of reading as a pastime for young women. And (Mary was beginning to grow rather sleepy, and turned again onto her side, closing her eyes) she already knew that he enjoyed music—or his family did—after all, they had a pianoforte, and went to concerts—
She was asleep within another minute, and dreamed not at all of proposals, engagements, weddings and marriages.
Mary was not particularly looking forward to the next day's ramble; but she was cheered greatly by the prospect of visiting a book-shop, and supposed that she could put up with a great deal of silly gossip and idle chatter if it meant that she would be returning home with a new book—or even two—in hand. Indeed, she thought with satisfaction, such a prize would make her next weeks in Bath far more tolerable than the previous ones had been, and she would have something to read on the looming journey home.
Mrs. Hart and the two Miss Harts collected them shortly after breakfast. The rain of the previous day had petered out into a light drizzle overnight, and by morning there were no more drops, although a thin mist hung over the city and there was a chill in the air. Mrs. Bennet insisted that Miss Hart keep the borrowed umbrella for the day, though Mrs. Hart had brought one as well, and further insisted on Mary carrying the spare, in case the gray skies above them should make good on their promise.
"It would not do to have you girls fall ill, for then you could not go to any more balls," she declared. Kitty, looking aghast at the prospect, hurried upstairs to exchange her thin summer shawl for a spencer. This delayed them another ten minutes, for Kitty—having flung her clothes haphazardly about the room despite Mary's instructions to put them away neatly—could not find a spencer, and eventually ended up donning one which must have been packed by mistake, for it was too tight across the shoulders. Eventually, however, the five ladies set off from Henry Street, headed north and west toward the center of town.
"Have you finished the book you were reading?" Rosamond asked Mary as they walked.
"I have not; but it is one I have read before, and so I shall have no difficulty forgoing it in favor of a new one."
"I suppose you must read with great discipline: never putting a book aside until you have finished it, and reading each sentence with great consideration and thought."
Mary glanced at her; the young lady's large eyes were fixed on the street ahead of them, but there was a small smile on her face which reminded Mary very much of Robert.
"That is how I believe one should read," she answered stiffly. "How else can one properly absorb lessons, and consider theories? I believe reading to be fundamentally an act of reflection and self-improvement."
"You do not read for amusement?"
"I read for enjoyment, for I enjoy reading; but I never look to be amused."
"So I suppose you restrict your reading to works of theology and philosophy."
"Indeed I do, although I occasionally peruse works of history. I have never read a novel," Mary remarked with some pride.
"But do you not think you are limiting yourself? Surely a comprehensive reading ought to include works of more than one or two kinds—I believe there are as many important ideas to be found in works of fiction as in books of sermons."
"I must disagree," Mary replied, annoyed.
Miss Hart laughed. "But how can you disagree? You tell me you have never read a novel; and I am sure you cannot judge the entire contents of a book you have never opened."
"I have heard enough young ladies discuss such books to form an adequate opinion of the genre," Mary replied, rather haughtily.
Miss Hart was regarding her with great consideration. Mary, growing discomfited by the gaze, looked around for Kitty—for indeed she was surprised her sister had not taken up her customary place at Rosamond's side—only to find her quite happily engaged in conversation with Mrs. Hart and the younger Miss Hart, who was relating some story with much animation.
"You play the pianoforte, do you not, Miss Bennet?" Miss Hart asked. Mary turned back to her, somewhat startled by the change in conversation.
"I do."
"I remember your telling me of your disappointment that there was not an instrument in your lodgings here."
"Indeed, it is very unfortunate; I am most unwilling to neglect my practice." Mary hesitated. "Your brother was kind enough to invite me to practice upon your instrument."
Miss Hart made no reply. Mary suddenly felt quite forward, and hurried to atone for her mistake.
"Of course, I am sure he made the invitation without consulting you, and I should not dream of taking advantage of such generosity. I only meant—"
Miss Hart, laughing, waved a dismissive hand. "I made the same offer myself, Miss Bennet, though you do not remember it; and indeed I am rather put out that you will only take the invitation seriously when it comes from my brother! But you are always welcome at Hart House—though now I am of a mind to add a condition."
"I beg your pardon?" Mary stared at her.
"Oh, it is nothing so very trying," the young lady replied, still smiling. (Mary wondered if Miss Hart ever frowned, or looked serious. She could not imagine so.) "I only thought I might oblige you to read a novel, in return for unlimited use of our pianoforte."
"A novel?" Mary sighed. "Miss Hart, I have told you that I do not read such works."
"Indeed you have, or I should not challenge you so," Miss Hart replied lightly. "Will you not, Miss Bennet? I shall select one for you—my sisters may help me choose—and I promise you will enjoy it, or at least find it interesting."
Mary made no response. She wished Miss Hart would not pester her so; but at the same time, she was rather anxious to resume her everyday practice. As if discerning the trend of Mary's thoughts, Miss Hart added,
"The instrument is a fine one, and my father takes a great deal of care with it, and so it is in excellent condition. And I may have some music which you have not played before—were you not telling me the importance of attempting new pieces? My family and I should love to have you play for us; my father has always enjoyed having a house full of music."
"And in exchange for the use of your instrument, I must read a book of your choosing?" Mary answered, disgruntled. Miss Hart laughed.
"I shall not hold you to this challenge, Miss Bennet; even if you refuse, you are welcome to the pianoforte. But I should be interested to hear your opinion of the genre once you have sampled it—the judgment of a young lady so widely read as yourself must always be particularly valuable."
This soothed Mary's irritation somewhat, and she gave a small sigh. "Very well, Miss Hart; I suppose it can do no great harm for me to read one silly novel."
"Do not worry, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart replied, taking her arm cheerfully. "I shall take great care to choose one that is only somewhat silly."
Her tone was teasing, and Mary, though hardly looking forward to the experience, did not bother to remove her arm from Miss Hart's gentle grip.
There was a bookseller's in Hertfordshire, which Mary sometimes visited when she walked into town with her sisters. It was a small, cramped shop, dark and smelling of old writing-paper, with piles of books falling onto each other in the gloom. Mary had never found her visits there particularly productive, for the selection was rather limited: a few books of very old poetry, one or two novels which had been popular several years ago, and, in deference to their country surroundings, a great many almanacs (spanning back several years) and books on plowing, planting, irrigation, and other matters which were primarily of interest to gentleman farmers. It was rare for Mary to purchase something new from there; her reading was mostly drawn from her father's library (though even he possessed rather too much poetry and fiction for her taste) or, with the advantage of her eldest sister's marriage, from Mr. Bingley's library.
The shop into which Miss Hart directed them, however, was not at all like the little shop in Meryton. It was large and quite spacious, with large bright windows facing the street and long, tall shelves lining the walls and running the length of the floor. Mary's heart lifted at the sight of so many books.
Her pleasure must have shown in her face, for Miss Rosamond, glancing at her, remarked, "Is it not a fine place? I confess, there are few sights which bring me more satisfaction than that of a very well-stocked bookshop."
"It does indeed look quite promising," Mary agreed.
The other ladies entered the shop only a moment behind them, and Kitty exclaimed at the size of the room, and remarked that it should make a very tolerable ballroom, if all of the shelves were taken out. Mary gave her a very disapproving stare at this, but Miss Rosamond only laughed: "I am sure Mr. Mostyn would frown upon such an action; but perhaps we shall find you a novel with plenty of balls in it, for that, I think, is the next best thing!"
"Rose, how much may I spend?" queried the younger Miss Hart, looking eagerly about the room.
"Papa said you may purchase one new volume of poetry, but no more, for he fears you will begin speaking in verse; and," the elder sister continued, more loudly, as Miss Juliet made her way into the shelves at a rapid pace, "do not forget the book which Robert asked us to bring for him—he will be most displeased if we come home without it, and he will sulk for days!"
"I shan't forget!" Miss Juliet promised.
Miss Rosamond turned and clasped Mrs. Hart's hands with a great deal of affection.
"You and I, Anne, have a particular task," she declared, "for I have been cruel to poor Miss Bennet, who never reads novels, and have forced a promise that she will read at least one while she is here in Bath. I am to choose it for her; but now that I have extracted her agreement, I find myself fearful of incurring her displeasure, and reject every choice as soon as I have made it. Will you help me?"
"This is a challenge indeed," Mrs. Hart agreed with a smile, "and you cannot undertake it alone."
"We must choose something interesting, but not trivial; something which has an excellent moral lesson, but is not dull; there must be a good story, but it cannot be only a story—in short, Anne, we must find the most perfect novel ever written—no small task, to be sure!"
"Perhaps one of Mrs. Parson's," Mrs. Hart mused, and the two of them, laughing, drew together toward one of the shelves.
"Well, Mary," Kitty said quietly, with great satisfaction, "I am glad to see you have made friends with Rosamond, for I had hoped you would."
"Is that why you chose not to walk with her?" Mary demanded.
"Indeed it is, for I remembered what Mamma said to you last night, about the opinion of the sister bearing on the opinion of the brother; and I thought I ought to give you every opportunity to speak with her and make her think well of you. Is she not the most agreeable young lady you ever met?"
"You have said the same thing about Miss Darcy, and about Maria Lucas, and about countless other friends of yours," Mary said drily.
"I daresay you will like very much to have her as a sister in law."
She said this rather too loudly for Mary's liking, and though the Hart sisters seemed not to have heard, Mary rounded on her sister with a hiss of "Kitty!"
"Oh, la, stop acting as though it is some secret!"
"There is no secret—I am not going to marry Mr. Hart, and I wish you would stop talking about it."
"You are grown very sensitive about the matter, I see," Kitty said approvingly, "and that is a certain proof that you are in love with him. You need not conceal your feelings from me, Mary; I know very well what it is to be in love. "
She said this last very wisely, with an air of worldliness; and Mary, entirely too frustrated to face her sister with equanimity, stalked away toward the shelves. Kitty, very pleased with herself, hurried to join Rosamond and Anne.
Juliet was the first to make a selection, for she had had a book in mind for some time; and Kitty followed soon after, selecting a novel by Mary Hays which Rosamond assured her was "very tragic indeed; it made Anne cry, the first time she read it." (Mrs. Hart, laughing, did not bother to deny this.) Mary, after a great deal of consideration, chose a German text titled Foundations of Natural Right, which looked suitably difficult and philosophical.
"Why, that is the book which my brother asked us to bring for him," Juliet exclaimed, upon discovering Mary's selection. "Pray, where did you find it?"
Mary directed the girl to the proper area of the shop, ignoring Kitty's very significant look.
At length, only Mrs. Hart and Miss Rosamond remained at the shelves, searching for Mary's novel. They had enlisted the assistance of Kitty, hoping that her knowledge of her sister's character would be an asset in making their selection, but Kitty had only advised that they choose the dullest book they could think of, for Mary would be sure to approve of it. Mary, lingering nearby, overheard snatches of conversation:
"Not that one, for it is very entertaining but there is nothing to it—"
"This one has an excellent mystery, but the ending was quite wrong; she should not have married the Count—"
"What about Camilla? But then Camilla is all about marriages—"
"Nay, Anne, not that one, for I thought the love story very ill done; I could not see what he liked in her, for she never did anything worth liking—"
"No, no, Rose, that one is rather scandalous—"
"I shall not read anything scandalous," Mary interjected.
"Of course you shall not; that is why we are rejecting it," Mrs. Hart replied, with something approaching impatience, and Mary, injured, withdrew.
At last, the ladies selected a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe —The Italian—for it dealt with religion in very interesting ways, according to Miss Hart. "You may ignore much of the Gothic parts, if you will, for in some places I think she is rather overbearing; but the characters are quite well done. I do hope you enjoy it, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart said, with great sincerity. "And," she added, smiling, "we shall be happy to see you at Hart House whenever you decide to begin your practice."
Miss Hart was even good enough to offer to pay for the book, since she was compelling Mary to read it; but Kitty declared this ridiculous, and added Mary's novel to her own as they approached the shopkeeper. "Mamma has given me far more money than I needed," she confided in her sister, "and I could not face her if I came home without spending most of it, after spending all the day in town!"
August 23, 1798
Pemberley
Derbyshire
My dear Mary,
I am glad to hear that you are all so well, and will ask you to pass along the compliments of everybody here at Pemberley to Mamma, Kitty, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Fitzwilliam and all our other mutual acquaintance.
My dear sister, I shall not waste very much time with pleasantries, for Sophia is only napping and I am fear I shall be interrupted when she wakes. Your concern for our sister is commendable indeed, but I should like, if I could, to ease your mind somewhat on that score. The circumstances in which Lydia and Kitty have found themselves differ in a few important particulars, and I think it therefore unlikely that Kitty should take such a disastrous step.
Lydia was sent from home in the company of the Forsters, a respectable couple who were nonetheless, at that time, only very lately known to us, and were not connected with our family in any but the most casual of ways—that is, we had met them a few times in the neighborhood, and Lydia and Mrs. Forster had become friends. While the Forsters were certainly not to blame for Lydia's elopement, you must admit that Kitty is watched over by very different guardians. While our mother may not do much to check Kitty's wilder impulses, Colonel Fitzwilliam—our cousin-in-law—is a very intelligent man, who should certainly recognize any disturbing signs in Kitty's behavior. The family connection on which that relationship is based will certainly provide the good Colonel with incentive to watch over our sister, even if his own integrity were not enough to ensure it. Furthermore, we have other friends in Bath, in whose judgment I have the utmost faith. Kitty may appear unsupervised—she may even believe herself to be so—but indeed, that is far from the truth.
I must also add, that while I certainly should never call Kitty an entirely sensible girl, she nonetheless possesses a certain understanding of propriety which I believe Lydia never did. Kitty has always been the quieter of the two, even the more prudent (a relative term, given the characters of our youngest sisters, but an important one nonetheless), and I believe her long separation from Lydia has wrought a positive change in her behavior. Certainly, she delights in balls and parties and fine things—but I doubt she is willing to forsake her family, her friends and her reputation in order to secure such amusements. If you have faith in nothing else, dear Mary, have faith in Kitty herself. She is not so heedless as you may think her, particularly when she is away from Lydia. Indeed, Mary, I believe your influence may be useful to her, though I doubt she will ever admit it.
In short, Mary, I do not believe it entirely necessary for you all to be removed from Bath at the present time. Our father will send for you in a month or two, at any rate, and until then I believe it will do you good—even more good than it will do Kitty—to meet new people, make new friends and enjoy new experiences. Perhaps you will find that Bath is not so dangerous as you think it. Kitty has told me of her attachments and attractions; have you any to share?
Mary snorted.
We are all well here, although Georgiana recently suffered from a slight summer cold—perhaps the same which afflicted the youngest Miss Hart! Sophia grows larger and more curious every day, and every day I am quite amazed to realize how much she resembles Darcy. (He tells me that he is always amazed to realize how much she resembles me, the dear creature!) The leaves are beginning to change, and we lit our first fire of the season in the west parlor only last night…
The rest of the letter regarded largely trivial matters, to Mary's mind, and she put it aside in disappointment. So they were not to leave Bath! She was obliged to another month, at least, of silly engagements, foolish entertainments and trivial talk of dancing and love and marriages. Mary heaved a great sigh, allowing her to fall back upon her bed in a manner she usually considered careless.
And yet, she reflected, as she stared at the ceiling and listened to Kitty and Mrs. Bennet chattering in the parlor, her disappointment was not so great as she had expected. She had, to her great surprise, discovered things she enjoyed in Bath—the park and the bookshop, namely, and also the company of Mr. Hart. If she had books to read, places to walk and a sensible friend with whom to enjoy conversation, she might at least enjoy some escape from the constant parade of silliness which formed her everyday life at Henry Street.
Mary rose from her bed and began making her way downstairs to join her mother and sister. Perhaps, she thought, she might visit Hart House tomorrow, and take up her music once again.