Mary began to make a study of men. Her confrontation with Mr Darcy had stripped away the veil that surrounded the sex in her mind, and she found fascination in their every move. The books which she had poured over for clues returned to her nightstand, and now she did not care to find out what men did, but instead tried to reason out why. An academic exercise, perhaps, but one with a deeper purpose: without even realising it, Mary tried to reason out Darcy's mind, so that she might reach past him to Georgiana's arms.
She also found, to her amazement, that she was less intimidated by men than any of her sisters. Even Lizzie and Jane, for all their mature witticisms, fidgeted before stepping into the drawing room of any social gathering. The younger girls smiled more, and the older ones smiled less, but all of them were clearly altered by the presence of waistcoats and boots. Mary was quite untouched. Not least by society's indifference to her, but because of the men's irrelevance.
She knew that she was never going to make a conquest, nor to flatter any creature that caught her eye. While her sisters struggled to find their mates, she was not even considered. Her mother had eased her into spinsterhood for years, with second-hand dresses and dull fabrics her sisters had cast off. She was never gilded or celebrated - a fact that would have insulted any other girl, but that had always suited Mary. Now she felt its sting, but could not make herself care. Weary resignation made her rise above it.
I am to be unmarried, she confessed to herself, Well then, I shall make the best of it.
No more would she force herself to smile, or trip over slippery shoes in the gavotte. Those days were over. Mary rejoiced, and turned her passions for music and recognition into her new, scholarly endeavour.
At night, she let herself weep. If she was more polished, and had perhaps one or two gowns of bright, new fabric, then perhaps she would have felt brave enough to go with Georgiana into society. In the dark hours, it was tempting to fool herself. In the morning, when she looked at her muddy brown eyes in the looking glass, she disillusioned herself with ease.
Do not be so foolish! Georgiana wrote, when Mary confided in her. You have many prospects. I curse myself each day for letting Fitzwilliam send you away, for if you were with us you would see how sweet and kind these people are. They would love you as I do.
Mary wrote back rather scathingly, pointing out that men who were sweet and kind to heiresses did not generally pluck wallflowers from the garden. Georgiana responded icily, and for a few letters their comments were rather terse. Miss Darcy's affection quickly overcame her pique, and soon she returned to her assault:
You must not give up. Spend the next season with me. People will see that you have connections, which means a great deal at first, and then you can find someone who hates dancing as much as you do.
The thought made Mary's smile, and she wrote back a teasing letter thanking her friend for the offer, and inventing in playful detail some imaginary men in Meryton whose dancing was even worse than her own. As she walked into town towards the post, she imagined herself walking through Bath with the Darcys and giggled. It would be like the day when Darcy and Bingley had appeared at their first ball! Mary imagined everyone staring at her. She imagined a woman who looked like Mrs. Bennet gossiping over a card table. "Why yes, my dear - fifty pounds a year!"
Lydia saw to it that Longbourn was never tranquil, but it became a great deal less so with the arrival of several small children. While the young Gardiners were dear, sweet children when visited briefly, the prospect of an extended stay made Mary quake. Lizzie was, at least, to escape from the chaos. While she journeyed to the lakes with Mr. and Mrs Gardiner, Jane had been tasked with the care of the children.
Mrs. Bennet claimed that this was a small task. A good, stout nursemaid had accompanied them, and it would be good practice for the servants to work with children underfoot. She smiled at her eldest daughter as she said this, ignoring Hills' thin lips and Jane's reddening cheek. Good practice, indeed! At least, Mrs. Bennet said broadly, Mr. Bingley could afford more than one idle nursemaid.
Having infuriated all of her loyal staff and her sister's undeserving employee, Mrs. Bennet demonstrated the motherly arts by retreating to her room. Mary provided her with smelling salts when she screamed, and on the whole considered her more of a nuisance than even the youngest child. Certainly, she was louder. Lydia and Kitty threw their scant manners to one side and played with their cousins with wild abandon, running through the gardens and the country lanes until one red face could not be told from another. Poor Jane spent all of her time running errands in town and commiserating with the laundry-stricken servants.
Thus it was that, for the first time in her life, Mary found herself alone in the house with her father.
What an enviable position! Of all the men in the world, this was the one whom she longed to impress. His quick sarcasm and easy manners were so at odds to those of his middle child that Mary sometimes doubted the relation. At least in her mother's social 'graces', she could find some family resemblance. But her father was a mystery, and even as a child her overtures had been clumsy. When she was very small she was merely a stepping stone in his quest towards an heir; now, when he had given up, she was a stranger who could not even be coaxed into witty repartee.
Mary had never expected to find commonality with her father, nor he with her. Now circumstance had forced their hands, but Mary did not dread their time together. Rather, she relished the chance to continue her edification of the male mind.
An experiment was settled upon: to speak openly to Mr Darcy, Mary had only to be disgusted by him. To love her father, she must do the same. Fury paved the way to honesty, and forgiveness and confidence could follow. Mary forced herself to see beyond her filial role and to break the fourth holy commandment.
Mr. Bennet was not a perfect father, nor even close. He had ignored five souls in hopes of one who God did not deign to send, and now he was lamenting the loss rather than mending his ways. He had set aside little money or time for his children, and now that they were reaching for their future, had left it in the care of his careless wife. Her urgency and passion did more to harm them than to help, and any soothing influence Mr. Bennet could have had was marred by his dislike of the woman. Yes, there was much there to hate. Mary clung to it, feeling it like a black knot in her stomach, and used it to smile and greet him at their solitary luncheon.
Her father, with not unpleasant surprise, returned her new affection. He was delighted to find a keen, if not sharp, intelligence beneath the girl's steady eyes. She had never spoken to him enough to betray her slow tongue, and now he saw her hesitation as the mark of a considerate mind. He discovered her reading preferences with vivacity, and shared his own with no heed to her gender or age. Here, he discovered an unequal but entertaining mind, and he delighted in nurturing its quiet spark.
Mary only stumbled when he was over-quick. At breakfast, when Lydia easily spoke over her, or when her mother was curt and dismissive, she stuttered like a fool. Mr. Bennet did not encourage her to speak, but he saw how her stubbornness made her continue the attempt. Her younger sisters noticed that she was struggling, and giggled behind their hands. On rare occasions when Mary had something meaningful to say, Lydia rolled her eyes at her over the potatoes. Loyal to her sister's jests, Kitty told Mrs. Bennet that Mary was speaking with her mouth full. Stunned into silence, Mary choked on her words and the triumphant Lydia prattled into the silence.
"You are arrogant, and have nothing of worth to say." Lydia privately told her, in a reasonable tone that made Mary's skin crawl. "Your reading has made you pompous. You would be a good match for Mr. Collins, if only he were not married. What a loss! There cannot be another like him - or, I hope not!"
Her cruelty was astounding. Mary felt her skin growing hot, and then icy. When she opened her mouth, only a rasping croak emerged. Lydia crowed with fierce joy, and then blanched at the sight of something in the corridor. She folded her hands before her and lowered her head, the picture of innocence, but her eyes were hot with wickedness.
"Lydia," Mr. Bennet said - for it was he, "Of all the silly creatures in this house, you are the last one to accuse someone of speaking nonsense."
Lydia rallied under his seemingly calm eye, twisting her lip in a way that coaxed the man to share the joke. "Did you hear her, father? She said that the Whigs…"
"Ah yes, the pamphlet that I leant you." Mr. Bennet turned his full attention to his middle child, who raised her chin and bit her trembling lip. "You must tell me of your conclusions, Mary. I couldn't hear you over the breakfast table. My ears were filled with pleas about Brighton instead of words of sense!"
Lydia reddened. "The militia are there, father. Don't you want me to make a good match?"
"A good match! Better you look abroad, to the men who fight for this country. A man who buys his commission and only uses it to swagger about is not worth your time. Or at least, not worth my time, which is a great deal more valuable."
The girl was struck unusually dumb by this. Taking advantage of her confusion, her father turned a rare smile onto Mary.
"Come and see me after luncheon, my girl."
Mary gave him one of Georgiana's beautiful curtseys, and his eyes glittered mischievously at her. Then, with a final warning look at his youngest child, he made his way into the study. Mary glanced at her pink-faced sister, and saw such passion there that she was taken aback. Lydia's cruelty had masked something desperate and pathetic, and such a clear show of their father's favour had made the girl reel. Mary made a move towards her, and Lydia cried out in anger.
"You don't… you don't understand, Mary! You don't even want anyone! I want people so, so badly. I feel it in my stomach, twisting like a fist. To be seen - to be heard. That's all I want. I cannot stand it. I have to mean something to someone. Anyone!"
Mary floundered before this unexpected honesty. It was her own struggle, in her vivacious sister's voice. She was too quiet, and Lydia was too loud, but both of them had the same wrenching need. Still, her long-starved heart couldn't stop her from pointing out Lydia's hypocrisy. "Mother lo…loves you the most."
"Oh, mother! She cannot wait to be rid of me." Lydia tossed back her curls in impetuous fury. "Always dressing me up like a doll, throwing me around to distract men away from Jane. She must make a good match, you know! I must only ensure that lesser men do not interfere! Oh, you heard father. 'Swaggering officers' in their red coats - not good enough for him, or even for you, but perfect for stupid little Lydia!"
"You like the officers!"
"I do! Yes, I do! They do not scold me, or talk above me, as my family do!" Lydia glared breathlessly at the closed study door, and her face fixed in anger. "Well then, I am going to Brighton. He does not like the officers, but I shall make him like my company less!"