The outcry of the family brought Mrs Hill running to the breakfast room, but her haste was born from curiosity rather than necessity. Mrs Bennet's wail of anguish was too familiar to provoke concern, but even Miss Jane Bennet's voice had sounded amidst the general cacophony, and there was a decided note of anticipation in its musical tone.
The only voice not raised was Mary's. Although her hands shook, it was for a different reason. As her father read aloud from the letter of a certain young clergyman to the rest of the table, she found her own attention drawn inexorably towards the letter which lay beside her own plate.
It was addressed to her, but the hand was unfamiliar. It was a delicate copperplate in dainty brown ink, and unlike the twice-crossed script of Mr Collins, the lines of the address were widely spaced. It was an extravagant use of the thick, embossed paper. Mary subscribed to many editorial acquaintances, but she did not know anyone who wrote like that. She did not know anyone who could afford to! Those who could spare the expense would not suffer the indignity of being considered so proud.
As soon as the breakfast party broke up for smelling salts, gossip and the solace of the household chores, Mary made her way to the parlour. No-one would disturb her in the dim room until the afternoon sun brought warmth and light. She slit the wax with curious haste and read the most bewildering letter of her life:
My Dear Miss Mary Bennet
I hope you do not mind the familiar address when we have yet to be introduced, but I feel as if I know your character already and cannot bear to begin with the formality which custom dictates. Do forgive me if it is not to your liking.
But I begin poorly!
My brother urges me to write to you. He considers you a most fitting companion, which is the highest praise I have heard him bestow, and his judgement is never incorrect so I do believe his opinion to be true. I am told that you are like myself a quiet person, of solid stock, and that you share my passion for studies of music and literature.
Since losing my governess I have keenly felt the loss of a comrade in my daily studies, and having advised my brother of the fact, have received a recommendation towards you as a solution.
(That passage reads quite coarsely, but I fear I do not know the proper manner in which to address you. Simply put, I would like to correspond with you. I fear this letter is most inarticulate, but I beg you to attempt a reply.)
The book which you chose was well received, and very enjoyable if a little dry in tone. Do you agree with my view?
What are your opinions on Bach's Preludes, and is it true that you have six sisters?
I hope these questions will suffice to begin conversation, dear stranger.
Miss Georgiana Darcy
Mary read the letter several times without comprehension, and found that her strongest feeling was not pride to have been so noticed by Mr. Darcy, but misery. One word swam before her eyes; even in the innocent girl's penmanship it mocked her.
Companion.
The girl who had penned this letter probably meant to write 'friend', but torn between her guilty formality and her natural exuberance she had settled on that word, and it stung. Companions were spinsters, matrons with untouched bodies and zealous eyes who followed their married partners with doglike adoration. They became chaperones or maiden aunts, withered and useless as they relied on the charity of their families to support their old age.
Miss Mary Bennet had finally attracted the notice of a man, and this was how he saw her. As a quiet person of 'solid stock'. She bit her lip and tried not to feel the insult. Another part of her mind could not help but wonder how he saw Jane, or Elizabeth. Perhaps their 'stock' was not quite so pertinent to the way he and Mr. Bingley discussed them. If, indeed, they thought of them at all! Mary could flatter herself that she, at least, had been singled out by the gentlemen. Even if her selection was for most unromantic reasons, it was far more than the utter disdain which Kitty and Lydia had been awarded, for all that they fluttered their eyelashes.
Mary smiled and returned to the letter with a lighter heart. It was the work of but a minute to repair a pen whose sorry state bore testament to the carelessness of Lydia, and she began to write her reply. Unlike Georgiana's letter, Mary used small characters and spaced them closely together. Her words lacked the effusions of graceless inarticulacy which littered that lady's prose:
Miss Darcy,
I was surprised to receive your letter, but not unhappy once I understood its meaning. Of course I am much flattered by your attention, and the marked compliment your brother pays me in his recommendation. Would that he had discussed it with me, I would not be at such a loss to respond! For I believe that in penning this paragraph I have exchanged more words with yourself than he.
I am pleased to be your correspondent. I trust you will remain content to be mine! I will answer your questions before asking my own.
You are incorrect in one respect: I have four sisters, not six. My youngest sister is rather energetic and may have given the impression of being more than one person in both volume and movement, but my elder sisters are too refined to be so confused. I have no brothers, which is a great sorrow to the family, although I am soon to be introduced to the cousin who inherits our estate. I pray that he becomes in spirit the son that he is in law to my father, although my mother will not be swayed.
As for Bach, I admire his preludes as exercises to warm up the fingers, but find little interest in their sound. The notes are always spaced so distantly, and I prefer the close chords of more modern composers. There is something chilling about music which is not intended for dancing or wooing, but to whisper secrets. Do you agree? I suppose this is odd as my first question to you, dear Georgiana, but I am curious. My family consider my dislike of reels and jigs to display a lack of talent.
I am glad you enjoyed the book, although it may be more due to my sister's influence than my own. Your brother, it seemed, perceived her enjoyment of it. I imagine she shares your opinion of its tone; I do not, but then I am accustomed to reading much more serious texts.
Yours in respectful affection,
Miss Mary Bennet
Mary frowned at the last endearment, and resisted the urge to blot out her entire paragraph concerning music. It was a view which ran decidedly counter to fashion, and even to her unfashionable eye it seemed forward. Still, she did not wish to mar the neatness of the page, nor waste paper, and so on reflection she let it remain.