Chapter 13

Only one thing could've made Lizzy's actions more reprehensible, that if she had truly encouraged Mr. Collins attentions. Of course, she could easily be acquitted of that, but the very next day following the aftermath of such disaster, Mary observed all her sisters walk to Meryton and return with a small group of officers, and Mr. Wickham among them. For what she felt for Mr. Collins, the shame of her sisters and for his own disappointment, weighed upon her conscience. Despite not having quite recovered from the ball, Mary set her book aside, prepared and dressed to go downstairs.

The whole party were all ease and friendliness and laughter. Lydia glowed from head to toe, having accomplished something she had so hoped for since the arrival of the regiment; having gotten the crème of the crop to accept an invitation to Longbourn. Mrs. Bennet and Mr. Bennet received the greetings and introductions of each. Mr. Wickham, the obvious favourite, was put forward with a special mark of attention from Lydia and Kitty. The others, even though prior favourites, took second place. Mary paused on the stairs, quite startled, at the sight of Captain Carter, catching her in a side glance. While he had been smiling already, expression neither faded or lifted in his nod of greeting to Mary Bennet.

All were issued into the drawing room by rallying smiles from Mrs. Bennet, so bravely bearing up her tribulations from yesterday. There was mention of her nerves within five minutes of meeting the men, but it passed without laying blame on the one daughter. It's a difficult thing to swear from never speaking to any person again when they live under the same roof. For the sake of a pleasant time at tea, she got by with very short words or replies to Lizzy. No more than strictly necessary. Beyond that, nobody could've guessed the hostilities that existed. Tea and refreshment was sent for with Kitty ringing the bell.

"How are you feeling, Mary?" whispered Jane, who came up close.

"I'm well enough. Where is Mr. Collins?"

"I haven't seen him since we've returned. Last I observed him, he was here. Oh, I see him out in the garden."

Mary fully intended, in all boldness, to join him. She was nearly recalled by a good morning from Captain Carter near the door, and politely asking whether she would play for them. Once again, her tongue staggered to make an answer. She also struggled under the present circumstances, to do so with unaffected civility. More important matters were on her mind. Out in the garden, their cousin had retreated under the large oak. He sat on the bench with his Bible open. It didn't occur until she opened her mouth, to ponder what she could say that would call his attention away.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Mary," gasped her flustered cousin. He shuffled to his feet, book still open. "Forgive me. I seem to startle easily."

Her pale countenance suddenly blazed. "That's quite alright, Mr. Collins. I… did not wish to interrupt you. You must be composing your next sermon."

"Well, today, actually, I am doing some reading for my own edification."

"I see…"

"Yes. I'm making a study of the Proverbs. Although, I do come across passages that may serve for a Sunday service, quite often too. Today though, it is strictly for my personal benefit."

Both paused at a loss for words. It seemed as though he wished to continue reading, and she wished to continue speaking, despite her own instincts. "May I… sit?"

"Most certainly you may," he affirmed, with a waved hand. "I hope that you are feeling better, my poor cousin. I understood from your mother that you were ill yesterday."

"I am quite well, or, I am better than yesterday. And the fresh air does me good." Mary blushed perpetually at how quickly and ungainly she accepted his offer to sit. Most ladies responded with greater delicacy, moving slowly, sinking slowly to the seat, naturally. Instead, she practically dropped herself to the bench, and clutched the edges of her shawl in discomfort. So preoccupied, Mr. Collins resumed his position, as uncomfortably as herself.

"I just observed you have visitors," he remarked, with a mild edge to his voice.

"Just some of my sisters' acquaintances, nothing more. I don't quite feel myself equal to such a company."

"There is no shame in that, my young cousin."

"You may call me Mary, Mr. Collins. I'm sure that is allowable as cousins."

His brow raised. "You are too kind… Mary, Cousin Mary."

It wasn't quite there yet, but it was something. Mary accepted it with the sweetest smile.

"I do hope that… that your plans will not be affected by…"

"That is very thoughtful of you, Cousin Mary. And not to be unthankful for your concern, but I'd prefer that we be silent on that subject."

"Oh, of course. I'm dreadfully sorry. Of course…"

"I shall be staying until Saturday, according to my original plans. I do not wish to impose further on the generosities of your parents."

Thorough embarrassment prevented Mary from speech for the next couple minutes. Assuming the subject was closed, he returned attention back to his reading. She rose to take her leave, expressing her wish not to disturb him. But just then, Charlotte was seen approaching the house. She was about to proceed to the front door, then spotted Mary in the shade of the tree. It led to good morning and polite inquiries after her health and the family. Mary confirmed that Elizabeth was home and entertaining visitors. Charlotte addressed Mr. Collins with similar pleasantries, took note of the Bible, and proceeded to inquire particularly into passages that caught his interest. Far from being disturbed, he actually closed his book and proceeded to entertain Miss Lucas' conversation.

As it deepened, Charlotte suggested if they might not all carry on while taking a turn in the shrubbery. Mr. Collins fairly brightened at the opportunity to discourse on one of his favourite subjects. Unlike Mary, she shrewdly avoided any subtle reminders of Wednesday. Any and all subjects stayed on sunny ground. Nothing that Mary herself could not have discussed with her cousin, yet Charlotte introduced it with ease, set him at ease, and included Mary as well. Quite the contrary, Mary was not left out of it. Charlotte knew how to make conversation with more than one person, one inherited talent from her father. Perhaps the only they shared in common.

Eventually, the threesome made their way back to the drawing room. It desperately needed some music to drown out the voices of her youngest sisters. Hardly an agreeable environment for social intercourse of the more intellectual kind; still, the intellectuals made the best of it. Mary sought her solace and comfort at the piano forte. Dismissing herself entirely, it was too late for that, and too conspicuous for her to do so without appearing rude. In third place behind her sisters, their mother loudly proclaimed her fondness for the regiment's company. Redcoats were a soft spot for her as much as her youngest daughters. Lizzy and Jane observed her flattery with more than a few blushes, as she relived her adventures as a girl with the redcoats of twenty-some years ago. By the time she was heartbroken over the regiment leaving, Mr. Bennet wisely took his leave from the room.

All Mary could do in the face of such improprieties was to feign ignorance. She struck her notes a little harder to play louder, even if doing so made her wince. Either she must go deaf or her mother suffer a sore throat.

A lower, casual voice stood behind her: "It is a fine day out."

"It is, indeed."

"If I did not say so before, you have a lovely garden."

"Thank you. It is the work of Jane and Lizzy. They take almost as many pains as our gardener."

"It's a good thing, for anybody."

A servant came in bringing a letter for Jane, which caused some temporary distraction. From Netherfield, likely enough.

"Do not be ill at ease. I'm not going to inquire more," he spoke even softer. "If you were avoiding my presence-"

"Oh no, it had nothing to do with you, captain," murmured Mary.

"I am glad to finally have met your whole family. Everyone is very pleasant and welcoming."

"A generous summation," she retorted. "I've hardly been pleasant or welcoming. I was not ashamed of it before. But I am, now."

Mary feared to chance glancing up. For he had walked round to the side where his face could be seen. All proof had been provided, that the whole episode had finally been forgiven, if it were not forgotten already.

"Can we not be friends, Miss Mary?"

"I'm sure we can, but I'm not…"

"Not what?"

"Well, for lack of better words, I'm rather poor company in comparison…" During that dragging sentence, Lydia teased with Denny about the seizure of Pratt's saber at the ball. Mr. Wickham chuckled, less out of real amusement than acknowledgement. From the dimple of cheek to the upturned eyes, he was too much absorbed by the closer company of Elizabeth. More composed laughter mingled in their tête-à-tête on the divan. Kitty fought for a word amongst all Lydia's descriptions of delights. Mr. Collins, fortunately, ceased to care about their diversions while he and Charlotte sat on the seat at the window. He seemed not to be bothered anymore by Elizabeth's presence in the room, or angered by the attentions he'd have liked to have received before bestowed on another man.

"It's hardly fair to make such comparisons," he gently chided. "Nor is it fair to be compared."

"Nevertheless, it is true. You've seen me in company with the families of Meryton. I know what I lack, everyone knows my lack. Don't imagine that I say that out of self-pity. I'm not discontent. I, well, one should take pride in not complying with the general expectations. Do you not agree?"

"I feel like I agree with the thought, but there's a difference between self-respect and self-importance."

Her next key was an A sharp when it ought to have been a flat, and the discord caused Jane to jump in the corner. She'd been reading over her letter, and was folding it back up rather furtively. When her mother inquired about Netherfield, Jane smoothed it over with a couple sentences and forced a smile, which stayed fixed and determined. Something in it had disturbed her.

"That is rather severe," she mumbled. Mary started on another song. "You mean to imply that I think too highly of myself?"

He smiled. "Let me keep my diagnosis for medical opinions, Miss Mary, and I'll leave you to judge your own character."

Lydia suddenly tired of her mother's stories. Not overly bothered about interrupting, she set about asking Captain Carter where the regiment had been quartered previously, and whether or not Meryton was everything superior to it. There were also questions about his last visit to town, did he enjoy diversions while on leave, any great stories to tell. Innocent enough. She did not observe Mary or anyone else's conversations. Powers of perception were not a strong suit, with either Mary or Lydia, but if Mary had a right to boast of something over Lydia, in this regard, she was confidently superior. For all of Lydia's prior flirtations and coquettish ways, having once suffered love-sickness for the man, she never cared to inquire whether he had family in town, or how the family fared. Despite their obtuseness, Captain Carter made very courteous but vaguely detailed answers.

When Mr. Wickham added to the talk of London, musician and friend were free again.

"Don't think too highly of yourself, when I will admit to you, Miss Mary, that your conversation, interests, your insights mean a good deal. I do not find relief in your society simply because you are unlike your younger sisters. If anything, I find more comfort than delight in it."

Mr. Collins had seen a brighter, sweeter smile, but she did smile, half-way. "Now that is an honest opinion I find agreeable."

"It's not to say I don't have delight, but my pleasures in life are not the adventurous type many people expect of an officer. You see, in some ways, I do not conform either. So we are very well-suited as friends."

"I suppose I must agree."

"You suppose, but you don't want to?" He was nearly laughing. "I think you'd rather be disagreeable and contrary."

"I don't believe a single word of that. I think you talk nonsense," she jabbed, chuckling softly.

It was a meditated move, drifting away from the piano towards the hearth. Mary appreciated it just as much, more than if he lingered over the piano and engrossed her the whole visit. Had they lingered on and spoke more to each other, it would've drawn Lydia's eyes. Regardless of her wandering fancies, never fixed or steady, every and any girl could be accused of trying to steal her beau. She and Kitty had already exchanged heated words about who had the right to put themselves forward with Mr. Wickham. Lydia contended that she was the favourite, while Kitty easily argued that no such words have ever been said to her. Kitty even threw it up to Lydia that Lizzy had as much say as either, as Wickham sought her out repeatedly.

The best way to stay out of these silly arguments was to give them nothing to gossip about; if a girl wants to keep out of the fire, don't feed it coals.

When Saturday arrived, the day for Mr. Collins' departure, the whole family noted his unusually good mood. They had just dined with the Lucases the night before. It was much easier to distract him from the unhappy situation at Longbourn while hosting visitors at the table. Nobody could really attribute any solid reason for the effects upon him. At breakfast that morning of departure, with astonishment, he was heard declaring himself thankful for the hospitality and the hope of being entertained again at Longbourn in the very near future. Mr. Bennet took the wishes at face value, wishing to dissuade any more lengthy visits, despite all the diversion he derived of Mr. Collins' courtly airs. What would Lady Catherine say?

"Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth."

Details of when to expect him next would follow in that letter of thanks. In the privacy of her own drawing room, with no visitors or house guests to moderate her manners any longer, Mrs. Bennet made her speculations on this statement. Often, Mary did not indulge her mother's conversations, especially as regards matrimony. On this evening, neither of them had much choice. Jane had gone to bed early, not feeling very well, and Lizzy attended with concern. Lydia and Kitty lasted a little longer. Mrs. Bennet stared into the hearth, sighing and yawning before a healthy blaze.

At first, she voiced, for the third time in the evening, that she was surprised not to have heard more from Netherfield Park. Jane did not give much intelligence regarding the last letter, which gave her some distress. Hopefully, Miss Bingley should prove to be a reliable correspondent; though if the correspondent were Mr. Bingley himself, that would've settled many uneasy thoughts. There were also hard words for Lizzy, which Mary heard with some sympathy. But as she began to talk of Mr. Collins, the thought suddenly occurred.

"Why should he want to return so soon, unless… unless, he wishes to pay his respects to one of my younger daughters," she summed aloud. "It doesn't seem… but perhaps… Mary?" Her daughter looked up from her book. "What do you think of Mr. Collins?"

With some surprise, she blinked at her mother for lack of proper thought, no more than echoing her last question.

"Yes, I wish to know. You know, Mary, I can't help but wonder if I ought to have encouraged Mr. Collins to seek Lizzy's hand. She is rather an ungrateful girl; it certainly does not excuse her merciless treatment. If I had known she would throw him away, I'd not have even mentioned Lizzy. Perhaps, I should have asked her opinion beforehand. For then, I could have known how to direct our cousin while he was here."

"You couldn't have known, Mama."

"Well, I have learned from my error, and now I'm asking, what do you think of Mr. Collins?"

"I think him a very decent, respectable man." It was automatic. "I believe that he has a good deal to… to recommend him." Thankfully, the hour was late. Candles were all that kept the room from complete darkness, yet dark enough to mercifully hide the Mary's changing colour. "Impeccable manners. A keen sense of duty. Very moral and upright of habits. What better man could be found? There is a certain solidity to his countenance that has often struck me. He's not perhaps… the cleverest of men, I will admit. However, were he encouraged to read more and apply himself, I could see him being a rather suitable companion, to the proper wife that would cultivate him and herself, to be content."

Much of these reflections met little comprehension in Mary's audience. Depths over Mrs. Bennet's head, yet she listened with keenness. Eyes wide open and riveted to everything she said, hearing without interruption, as Mary slowly drew the courage to speak with each awkward stop and start. There was no memory of a time she spoke and commanded her mother's sole attention. Even as she finished, no other sounds or persons, nor time, disturbed them, nothing except the crackle of the fire.

"Do you, could you, perhaps come to care for your dear cousin, Mary?"

"… Yes. Yes, I do."

"You really… do care for him. Don't you, my dear?" sighed Mrs. Bennet, shocked.

"I do," Mary admitted, nodding sheepishly. Perhaps her mother wished to see more emotion, but considering her daughter, this testimony was quite impressive. Not quite the girl that burst with love, not with the typical violence of ardent love, but tenderness, warmth.

"Oh Mary, why did you not say anything before?" she gasped. "Had I known it, I would've mentioned your name instead of Lizzy. I'd have encouraged Mr. Collins to sit with you, listen to your practicing, gotten you more time together."

"Well, how would it look, Mama?" shrugged Mary. "I think suggesting my elder sister is simply the natural order of things."

"Nonsense my dear! Let's not dwell too much on the past. What's done is done. But he will be returning to Longbourn soon. That is something. He may have thought of you already. I recall, the first night he came to dine with us, the both of you seemed to get on very well together. He was quite struck by your extracts and opinions. I'd say, the thought is only natural."

"… He did seem like it."

"It must have been hard upon you, now that I think of it. No matter. Next time he comes," thumping a hand on the arm of her chair, "let's redouble our efforts. This time, I'll make it a point to put in a good word for you. You have plenty good qualities to make you an invaluable wife to a rector. Mark my words-"

"I am flattered, Mama, but I-"

"Hush." Mrs. Bennet tiredly rose from her seat, preparing to take leave, gathering her candle. "I'll do what I think best, just as you will do."

"I promise I shall."

Now, both were standing to make their way upstairs. The sight of her mother, warmed by the fire, wrapped up in shawl, a hundred more memories and trivialities rose spontaneously. How many times had her mother embarrassed her, and yet, other times, rallied behind her? When she was ill and in pain, when new prescriptions were needed, when bed or clothes needed changing, she ceased to be Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn for awhile, and became Mama. When one of the local gossips made remarks about her and her plain looks, Mrs. Bennet took too much offense, but that was her Mama. Mr. Bennet quizzed her habits and odd temper at times, in his own friendly way, which did not bother her. Yet, her Mama would not hear of it. If nothing else, she was often proclaimed the most accomplished daughter of the family, in her Mama's words.

Enjoying such tranquility and intimacy, both were reluctant to break away. With candle in one hand, Mrs. Bennet grasped her daughter's hand.

"You don't have an easy time of it, I'm afraid. I do worry for you, Mary. I fear your health may be a factor of concern for any husband. One reason why I'm anxious not to call Mr. Jones too often to Longbourn. It's much easier to go to town myself; let everyone think I'm consulting him on my nervous complaints."

"That's hardly necessary, Mama. It is very kind, just the same. I bear what I must. Perhaps it's just as well. I shouldn't like to be a disappointment to a future husband, if-"

"Disappointments are to be faced, my girl. In the meantime, Mr. Collins need not know about your monthly complaints. There will be no avoiding that after marriage, but as we know, a good man will bear it like a solider."

The word solider struck her in the chest for a second. Mary almost cringed at it; there were too many soldiers everywhere, in the village, in the house, in everyone's houses, in every conversation. It was enough to almost threaten her peace.

"Yes." They had come to the staircase, and into dark hallways.

"Yes. I'm glad to see you recovering once again. It's so gloomy in the house when you're unwell, my dear." It was not Mrs. Bennet holding her hand, or planting a kiss on the forehead, but her Mama. "Off to bed with you now. Don't stay up reading."

She sent her daughter to bed, little knowing, what high hopes had been raised were about to be done away in a matter of hours. But had Mrs. Bennet known, this blissful moment for Mary would not have happened. She'd not have gone to bed with grateful, self-contained tears. That night would've been miserable and sleepless, just as miserable as the next morning would prove to be. At the very least, Mary had one night of dreams about Hunsford, about her own life, and an agreeable companion.

Dear Vesper1931: If you don't know Harriet Oleson from Little House on the Prairie, don't worry. You're not missing anything. Haha.

To all who believe in Mary/Mr. Collins pairings. I'm sorry. I cannot agree on that. I don't know how Charlotte tolerated the situation. Not with her and Collins, but her and Lady Catherine. Mr. Collins has allowed this great lady to interfere and run almost every aspect of his life; he's going to expect his wife to put up with the same treatment. Charlotte cannot give basic orders in her own house, groceries or commands, to her servants without being criticized by Lady Catherine. She's told she should go see a particular apothecary for her needs, and if not, Lady Catherine will be extremely angry if she goes elsewhere. When children come along,she's going to tell Charlotte what she's doing wrong and how she should raise her kids. I feel bad for Charlotte. Mary would fare poorly in that kind of environment.

What do you think of this scene? Jane Austen mentioned it very briefly in the novel, and left it all to imagination.