A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading, favoriting, following, and reviewing! All of it really means so much to me!
So my plan is to post a new chapter once a week, every Friday. I'm currently about three chapters ahead, so hopefully I won't be falling too behind on posting (she said nervously).
I'm happy so many people are Mary fans - we all know she deserves a happy ending! With that, here's the second chapter, and reviews are always greatly appreciated!
Chapter 2: A Most Affectionate Welcome
Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy had not foreseen the effects which her marriage would have on her fondness for her family.
Jane had always been exceptionally dear to her – of that there had never been any doubt. And Mr. Bennet could be relied upon as a sympathetic listener and staunch ally if ever she was in need of one.
For the rest, however, Elizabeth found kinship had always been lacking – her poor mother, who had meant well, but had always gone about it in the most vexing ways possible; Kitty and Lydia, who had been too self-involved to seek any confidences from her; and Mary, who had delivered all her opinions with the high-headed air of one who condescends to their listener.
But as often occurs, there was nothing quite so successful in rendering them into her greater affection than their sudden and total absence, and as content and happy as Elizabeth was with her new life (and she surely was), she nevertheless found that she began to miss them in the way one misses the days which had proven themselves to be merely cozy preludes to current happiness.
Kitty was the first sister with whom she began to form a greater intimacy. Upon inviting her to stay at Pemberley, she was quite pleased to find Kitty was not nearly as troublesome as Lydia's influence had made her out to be. She was still self-absorbed, Elizabeth allowed, and vain in the way youth are predisposed to be, and a little silly moreover; but she also had a great knack for absorbing and mimicking those who were closest to her, and so under the combined influence of Elizabeth and Jane, she began to greatly improve, and by the time of her engagement, Elizabeth had not a hint of reproach in her conduct or character.
Lydia, meanwhile, was the sort of sister one either loathed or pitied, and in her own contentment, Elizabeth chose the latter – though the pity was not so strong as to be tempted to extend anything more than sympathy in her letters, and certainly not strong enough for any monetary support, upon which Lydia seemed particularly fixated.
All that remained, then, was Mary, and after some contemplation, and encouragement from the success with Kitty, she decided to invite Mary to come down to Pemberley for Christmas. She did this out of a sort of sympathy, where she imagined quite clearly the tiresomeness of spending the holidays alone with their mother (for Mr. Bennet would surely set up barricades in his study, and not budge until January had crept to his windows).
Mary had accepted, and came to stay for several weeks, where she made Georgiana's acquaintance for the first time, and spent a good deal of her time in their library. Disappointingly, Elizabeth did not feel the same promise as she had with Kitty, for Mary spoke as pompously as ever, lectured sanctimoniously to Georgiana on various subjects, and was altogether a girl who made quite a disagreeable impression on people. She even refrained from introducing Mary to their neighbors, with the view that she would inevitably either offend them or embarrass herself.
But despite all this, there was something that Elizabeth glimpsed in her – a glimmer, a seedling of something struggling most earnestly to break through the self-importance and severity, something which she was certain had not been present before. What that seedling might sprout, whether genius or wisdom or empathy, was too soon for Elizabeth to tell, but it gave her hope nevertheless, and it was for this seedling that she began to write more regularly to her following her departure, and that she invited her some half-a-year hence to visit Pemberley once more.
Now Elizabeth was awaiting the carriage to arrive at any moment, poised with Georgiana in their parlor. She had entertained at first a brief hope that Mary and Georgiana might become friends, but had been forced to give it up very quickly upon Mary's first arrival. She was quite certain Georgiana was not particularly eager to be welcoming Mary again (nor, she suspected was her brother), but Georgiana was far too kind-hearted a girl to ever speak those feelings aloud, and Elizabeth did not wish to embarrass her with their discussion.
"I do hope the trip here was not too tiresome for her," Georgiana said with sincerity.
Elizabeth smiled. "If Mary's trips are ever tiresome, they are more likely to be so for any traveling companions than for herself."
The roll of a carriage signaling Mary's arrival, Elizabeth and Georgiana made their way to meet her.
Mary disembarked from the carriage most awkwardly, as one not used to such maneuvers, and even reached instinctively to help with her luggage, before realizing her error and withdrawing her hands abruptly.
She was much unchanged in appearance, Elizabeth saw, as tall and lanky as before, a figure more of bone than of curves, and a prominent, sharp-hooked nose on a thin face. Her hair was up in the plainest fashion possible, her dress a solemn gray of cheap fabric (Elizabeth would write to Mrs. Bennet about obtaining her some more decent attire).
But as Elizabeth embraced Mary and exchanged with her all the pleasantries of immediate arrival, she admitted to herself that her eyes were changed somehow. In them was a spark more astute, more aware, and the corners of her mouth hinted at a new familiarity with smiling. The seedling, it appeared, had taken root.
More cheered by this than she had thought she would be, Elizabeth ushered her in and settled them in the parlour for tea and discourse.
Mary had, in fact, found the journey rather tiresome. She had not been able to focus on her chosen travel book, the carriage had rattled terribly, and to stare out the window with her own thoughts had led her down paths of contemplation which were rather grim and unproductive.
To step from her morose internal cavern into the brilliance and resplendence that was Pemberley, and the prettiness and charm that was her sister and Georgiana, was rather like emerging into the blinding light from a dark room – startling and disconcerting. Rather than enlivening her, it made her recede into herself protectively, shielding herself from the onslaught of splendor amidst which she surely looked misplaced.
"It's so good to see you, Mary," Elizabeth said fondly. Georgiana smiled at her politely but shyly, and Mary felt acutely how she must look to them. Their gowns were lilac and forget-me-not blue, thin and flowing and well-tailored, and though Mary did not care slightly for her own appearance (no, not even slightly, for that would be bowing to the entrapment of vanity), she did feel keenly that her garb, her appearance, was as contrasting to Pemberley as the moon was to the sun. Here were two nightingales, pretty and elegant, and here she sat, the ungainly raven.
This thought made her rebuke herself, for why was she to mind such things? – it was, after all, not she that was in the wrong – and to remove herself from these thoughts, she began rather mechanically giving a most thorough account of the state of affairs at Longbourn, down to the broken window clasp on the first floor and the newest book which had been added to her collection. She wished fervently as she spoke to say something intelligent or witty, some passing astute remark, which might impress and amuse her sister, but even in her own ears, she sounded only tedious and tiresome, and her voice rather strained; and it was quite as if the more she sought something clever to say, the more elusive and unreachable it became, until all she had left at her disposal was to rattle off tedious mundanities.
Elizabeth and Georgiana, however, listened to her with all the polite interest that propriety would dictate, making interjections at the appropriate moments (though both seemed momentarily uncertain what response she wished from them on the account of the broken window).
Having exhausted all her information at last, to the relief of all three, Mary fell into a stiff silence, becoming most attentive to her tea.
Georgiana ventured to breach the lull in conversation. "I do so look forward to your stay. And I do hope you shall make the acquaintance of the Miss Bensons, they really are so wonderful. I am certain you shall like them tremendously."
"The Bensons are our neighbors, just to the west of us, at Milton Hall," Elizabeth said for Mary's benefit, who seemed to bear no familiarity with the name.
Elizabeth could not give them quite the same esteem as Georgiana, for unlike her, she had enough experience and astuteness to recognize their pretty turn of phrases as condescension and their charms as merely foppery. She was pleased but not surprised to know her husband shared her opinions, and they had spent many a dull dinner party exchanging amused, knowing glances whenever Emma or Charlotte Benson did something particularly silly. However, towards Georgiana, they seemed to behave well enough, and though Elizabeth suspected she was to them more a pretty doll than a young woman, for Georgiana's sake she maintained with them a friendly acquaintance.
However, to imagine the sort of acquaintance Mary might choose to maintain with them was a simultaneously amusing and frightening thought.
"Miss Benson, I believe, is quite accomplished in the way of singing," Elizabeth remarked neutrally.
"Oh yes," Georgiana broke in, "Emma is simply the most charming girl, and she really does sing so beautifully!"
Mary's sullenness and self-reproach had found no great relief from the turn of the conversation, but here at last she thought she might say something clever and novel, and redeem herself from before, and therefore she began eagerly: "I often find (do you not?) that girls these days are so cursory and fickle in their studies of the arts. What was once considered to be only light fiddling, it seems to me, is now elevated and equated to the appearance of true mastery. I should wonder if any of these girls should have been considered accomplished if they lived but half a century earlier."
But instead of its desired effect, Mary found Lizzy fixing her with a rather fierce stare, and Georgiana, who was now significantly pinker than before, keeping her eyes fixed quite pointedly on her tea.
"Yes, I suppose some girls might not exert quite so much effort as you, Mary, dear," Lizzy said dryly, "but then, it might be because of their having inherent talent."
Mary's eyes darted between her sister and Georgiana's averted gaze, and a coloring of her own cheeks betrayed the realization of her offense – she recalled now Lizzy mentioning that Georgiana was considered to be quite accomplished on the pianoforte. "Yes, which is not to say that true mastery in and of itself has become quite extinct, only that it is, on the whole, rather… rarer." Her clumsy words trailed off awkwardly, and her only relief was the sound of the front door being opened and of steps which indicated a new arrival.
It was Mr. Darcy arrived back from his ride down to his estates manager.
"Miss Bennet, a pleasure to see you have arrived safely." He bowed to her, and then greeted his sister and Lizzy with much greater warmth.
"I trust you are instilling her with the most vicious and asinine of gossip of our neighbors, Lizzy," he said, the slightest hint of wryness playing upon his mouth.
"Why, my dear Mr. Darcy," Lizzy said, "all the asinine gossip is concerned only with you, of course, as it always is in your absence, and we are now in grave disappointment at your unexpected return, as we are forced to cut the discourse short."
"Well, I am loathe to inflict on any woman such grave disappointment, and most of all on you, Mrs. Darcy. I shall excuse myself, and if you feel the wish to resume teazing me in my presence once more, you may find me in the study." And at this, with another stiff nod to Mary, he withdrew, though not before he and his wife exchanged a most affectionate smile which spoke of a familiarity no longer requiring the tedium of mere words.
The interruption had been most serendipitous; the awkwardness of before seemed to be forgotten, and the conversation resumed most gracefully.
"You must join me this afternoon!" Georgiana said, "Emma and Charlotte have been so insisting I visit, for they have the greatest urge for an afternoon of painting, and I am sure they should be delighted to meet you at last."
Mary was not, as of yet, recovered from their tea, and could not quite fathom a more tortuous and tense way to spend her first afternoon at Pemberley. She chose to beg tiredness, saying she might take a rest in her room.
Elizabeth smiled and agreed it would certainly be best for her to regain her spent strength, knowing full well that in not an hour hence, Mary would be in the Pemberley library, devouring their books.
And, as testament to sisterly familiarity, indeed she was.