Mary said nothing to Jane or Lizzy about what she had heard. She supposed they knew already; her plainness now seemed so obvious that she did not know how she had not seen it herself. She did not expect them to show her any sympathy. They would never understand how she felt. How could they? Their beauty was as much a part of them as an arm or a leg—it was impossible for them to imagine life without it. Under its protection, they would leap and spring and dance into their futures; she, on the other hand, would trudge stolidly forward, placing one foot in front of the other without joy or grace. She had learnt from Mrs. Bennet that without beauty no real and lasting happiness was attainable. It never occurred to her to question what she’d been taught.
She had always been a cautious, watchful girl; now she thought of little else but the poor impression she must make upon those around her. The high spirits that had once inspired her to play and run about with her sisters ebbed away. She no longer had the heart for it. When Jane and Lizzy romped together or raced about the garden, everyone smiled and said they looked charming; but Mary told herself that if she were to do the same, she would appear ridiculous. It did not seem fitting for her to be light-hearted. Seriousness seemed the only mood a plain girl might adopt without exposing herself to the scorn or pity of others. Gradually she became used to it, until she came to believe that it was her nature, that this solemn, solitary, awkward creature was really who she was.
She watched with sadness as Jane and Lizzy drifted steadily away from her. They gave up their attempts to include her, rebuffed by her unhappiness. Mary was not surprised. Of course they preferred each other. How could they not? It was not long before they formed a tight, impregnable partnership, shored up by shared confidences and whispered asides. Mary could hardly believe there had ever been room for another sister in their affections, let alone herself. She bore the loss of Jane philosophically. For all Jane’s sweetness, Mary had always found her a remote presence, unknowable behind her perfect face; but the gulf that had opened up between herself and Elizabeth caused her real pain. It was only as they drew apart that Mary realised how much she loved her, how much she had revelled in her lively presence. No-one could make you laugh as Lizzy could, tease you into happiness, coax you into smiling at yourself with such easy charm. For a while, Mary clung on to a hope that Lizzy would be the one to save her—that she would recognise her sadness and extend her hand to help her, pulling her out of the pit of misery into which she felt she was slowly sinking. But although Lizzy sometimes looked at Mary with puzzlement, sometimes almost with regret, she neither spoke nor acted to keep her near; and soon their old closeness was nothing more than a memory.
* * *
As her elder sisters retreated from her, Mary had wondered whether she might not find a friend in one of the younger girls. When they were small, she watched them keenly, trying to see if they had inherited Jane’s and Lizzy’s beauty. She did not like to admit what it was that she hoped for. It seemed a cruel thing to wish that a chubby toddler might not grow into a fine young girl; but Mary could not help it. If either Kitty or Lydia turned out to be plain, then she might not feel so alone. Two plain sisters would understand each other. They would make common cause together, and surely, grow to be friends. It was not long before it became obvious this would not happen. By the time they were in their first proper frocks, even Mary could see that they followed not in her footsteps, but in those of Jane and Elizabeth.
“They are handsome little things,” declared their mother, with satisfaction. “Not quite the equal of Jane, but very pleasing nonetheless. Four beauties out of five is a very respectable number. I’m sure no-one could have done better.”
As Kitty and Lydia grew older, Mary quickly understood that her younger sisters had as little need of her as the elder two had. Left to herself, Kitty might have weakened. She was a mild, pliable girl, eager to please. She might have been persuaded to be Mary’s friend. But the youngest Bennet daughter was determined that would not happen. Even as a child, Lydia was headstrong, bold, and wilful; and once she decided she wanted Kitty for herself, Mary was no match for her. It did not take long before Kitty was entirely in thrall to Lydia, dominated by her iron whim, obediently echoing all her opinions. Soon, Kitty had as little time for Mary as did anyone else. By the time she was fourteen, Mary knew she came first with none of her sisters. She was no-one’s special friend or confidante. Neither her mother nor her father looked on her with any particular affection. In the midst of so large a family, she was utterly alone.
Chapter 3
Mrs. Bennet’s behaviour only deepened Mary’s unhappiness, for the pleasure she took in her four handsome daughters could not, it seemed, entirely make up for the shortcomings of the fifth; and with every year that passed, Mary’s appearance irritated her mother more and more. Mrs. Bennet had neither the patience nor the inclination to hide her vexation, which was provoked by a host of small failings; but few frustrated her more than Mary’s hair. Each night, at her insistence, it was tied into curl papers; and each morning, as Mrs. Hill brushed it out, it emerged as straight and as fine as before. Mrs. Bennet could not help but regard this daily disappointment as a personal affront.
“Mary, I believe you do this on purpose to annoy me.”
“Indeed, I don’t, Mama. I would make it curl if I could. Perhaps it could be swept back off my face? Then it might not be noticed that it doesn’t curl?”
Mrs. Bennet frowned.
“Perhaps you would rather wear a cap like an old married woman? That would cover up a multitude of sins!”
With this, her mother would march indignantly away, leaving Mrs. Hill to pick up her combs and brushes again, ready to make another hopeless attempt to achieve the impossible.
Soon Mary longed for invisibility. It was better to attract no attention at all than to find herself the object of her mother’s peevish displeasure. She did all she could to disappear, choosing dresses in the most anonymous colours, made up in the most unexceptionable styles. When Mrs. Hill, who she knew felt sorry for her, urged her to consider brighter shades and more flattering shapes, she refused—unremarkable greys and beiges were all she deserved. Convinced that nothing could improve the figure she presented to the world, she took no part in the conversations about hats and shoes and muslins which, as they grew older, occupied so much of Kitty’s and Lydia’s time. Lydia was sharp-tongued, as merciless in her judgements as their mother, and Mary feared the scorn she was sure would greet her awkward attempts to join in. It was easier to stay silent. When her sisters walked into Meryton to spend their allowances in the village’s small millinery shop, she hovered outside, alone in the street. There was no point in going in. What would she do with a new lace collar, with coloured ribbons or a straw hat? Fripperies of that sort were not for girls like her.
Restless and isolated, she sought other ways to occupy her time, but her choices were few. She had no talent for drawing, and needlework bored her. She could not paint, and she disliked cards. Music, however, was a different matter. Seated at the piano, Mary felt almost happy, forgetting for a moment her deficiencies and failures. All the Bennet sisters had been taught to play. Mrs. Bennet considered it a charming skill for a girl to possess, and had insisted that all her daughters acquire it, even providing a teacher for them. The genteel and put-upon Miss Allen arrived every Wednesday afternoon and taught each Bennet daughter, one after the other. Mary remembered awaiting her turn, counting the minutes till Lizzy was finished, breathlessly eager to take her place at the keyboard. At first, she had been so small that she had required a cushion in order to reach the keys. There she had sat, precariously perched, her child’s tiny fingers stretching to perform her scales and arpeggios. She had loved it from the beginning, thrilled by the sounds she produced, excited as, week by week, they came gradually to resemble tunes and melodies. This was when she was still young, before she had learnt to be ashamed of herself. As she absorbed the painful knowledge of her plainness, she had turned her face away from many purs
uits she had once enjoyed; but her love for music was one of the few passions Mary did not renounce as she grew older. She continued to play, even as sister after sister gave up, abandoning their piano lessons as quickly as Mrs. Bennet permitted. Soon only Mary and Lizzy troubled the battered family instrument with any regularity.
Something, however, had changed. When she began, music was a treat for Mary, an escape from a daily life in which there was precious little to enjoy; but by the time she entered her teens, she no longer looked upon it as merely a diverting pastime. It had slowly dawned on her that once she was seated behind the keyboard, good looks counted for nothing. At the piano, the plainest woman might outshine the prettiest if she had the ambition and single-mindedness required to do so. Although conscious of her shortcomings in so many areas of life, Mary did not doubt her powers of stamina and application; and it struck her they could be harnessed to deliver a sense of purpose and achievement sadly lacking elsewhere in her drab existence. Why should she not direct them towards mastering the piano? She was already competent—with effort, she might become even more accomplished. The prospect of possessing a talent of her own, some mark of distinction, was thrilling to her, and she did not for a moment begrudge the work involved in acquiring it. She willingly exiled herself to the drawing room, where none but she ventured until teatime, rehearsing her exercises again and again. She was dogged in her pursuit of perfection, and eventually, she was rewarded for it. In all aspects of technique and proficiency, she was soon much improved. Miss Allen declared herself very satisfied with her progress, and assured her that if she maintained the habit of regular and rigorous practice, she could expect to get better still.
Mary was unused to praise, and this small crumb of encouragement was enough to harden her resolve and tie her to the keyboard for many solitary hours. Mostly, she did not resent the time she spent alone with her exercises; but occasionally, in the midst of her practice, she would find herself overtaken by a sadness she did not understand. It took her a while to grasp that the sensation she felt was one of regret for the pleasure and excitement that had once overwhelmed her when she played. The relentless discipline she had imposed on herself had slowly extinguished all the delight with which she used to approach the piano. Now it was a task like any other. Her hard work and effort had brought her the expertise she longed for; but it had been achieved at the cost of a simple enjoyment she had loved more than any other.
Usually, Mary was able to convince herself this had been a price worth paying, that indulging her happiness mattered less than honing her skills. But there were times when she was assailed by doubts about what she had given up, when longing for the fulfilment and release which music had delivered broke through, despite all her attempts to repress it. One morning, as she walked towards the drawing room to begin her daily practice, music tucked under her arm, she heard the unmistakable sound of Lizzy at the piano. She would have known her style anywhere—fast, full of bravado, so appealing that it was impossible not to turn your head and listen. The few mistakes she made did nothing to mar the pleasure of hearing her. Mary slipped silently into the room and watched her sister as she finished the piece, head tilted back, concluding with a little flourish all her own, added for no other reason than her own satisfaction. Mary sat down, a little stunned by the energy and attack of Elizabeth’s treatment of the song. It was nothing like her own precise and exact style, but no-one could hear it and not admire it.
“That was very good, Lizzy,” she exclaimed. “There were hardly any false notes. If you were to practise properly, you might really master it.”
Her face slightly flushed from the exertion of performing the piece, Elizabeth pushed the stool away from the keyboard, as if to signal she had done what she wished to do, and would play no more.
“That wouldn’t suit me at all. I’m not sure I have the patience to master anything. The minute it began to be troublesome, I’d find something else to do.”
“But don’t you want to cultivate your gift? It seems a great shame to waste it.”
“I’m not sure it is wasted if it pleases me.” Lizzy allowed her fingers to trace a simple scale. “I sometimes wonder if you might enjoy yourself more if you applied yourself a little less.”
“But if I don’t apply myself, how will I play anything correctly?”
“Perhaps,” remarked Lizzy, “correctness and application are not the only measures of success.”
This was exactly the suspicion that sometimes disturbed Mary’s own thoughts; but she pushed the idea away, for it was impossible for her to admit to it.
“I cannot believe anything worth having is to be achieved without effort and sacrifice.”
“That may be so,” replied Lizzy, “and yet I know I’d rather listen to a piece played with happiness and a spring in its step than to all the well-drilled perfection in the world.”
“I doubt you’d care to hear a succession of mistakes,” retorted Mary, “however cheerful the person was who played them.”
Elizabeth gathered up her music and rose from the piano.
“Possibly. But really, it seems a great shame to wring all the pleasure out of music. A few false notes seem a small price to pay in exchange.”
She touched Mary’s shoulder lightly as she left the room. Mary sat down and assembled her music but could not settle. Elizabeth’s words had agitated her. It was easy for Lizzy to speak slightingly of hard work and effort; everything came easily to her. She did not need to exert herself; charm would always see her through, even at the piano. Mary thrust her book of music onto the stand. For her, things were different. She flexed her fingers and began to practise her scales.
Chapter 4
When she felt too tired to sit any longer at the keyboard, it was Mary’s custom to retreat to her bedroom and read. There she had a small bookcase in which stood the dozen or so books which belonged to her. They were so familiar that she could recite whole passages from them by heart; nevertheless, it pleased her to open them and look again at the well-remembered words. She could not recall a time when reading had not been both a comfort and a refuge. Indeed, she sometimes thought she remembered the moment when the great joy of literacy had come upon her. She was huddled in front of the fire in the nursery when the black lines on the paper that Lizzy had so patiently traced for her ceased to be random shapes and suddenly assembled themselves into letters—A is for Apple, C is for Cat.
Once she grasped this, there was no holding her back. She raced on, advancing from picture books to rhymes and fairy stories. She made short work of The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes, and The Story of the Robins did not detain her long. In those days, she read in the company of Jane or Elizabeth, the three of them sitting together up in the nursery, each occupied with her own book in companionable quiet. But as she grew older and more unhappy and her sisters drifted away from her, books became less a link between them than a solace for their loss. When Jane and Elizabeth whispered together without including her, when they shut the door to their room and did not ask her to join them—then it was to her books that Mary fled, finding in them a distraction from the loneliness that depressed her spirits.
She read so much that she quickly exhausted not just her own shelves, but also the scanty resources of the Longbourn schoolroom. Soon she had finished everything it contained, from the atlases of the world to hints on housekeeping; but the more she consumed, the sharper her desire for new reading matter grew. She picked up anything she found about the house, bearing it away to study at her leisure. The novels Mrs. Bennet borrowed from the circulating library occupied her for a while; but their beautiful imperilled heroines, their handsome upright heroes, and the complications of the plot that brought them step by convoluted step to the most improbable happy endings did not please her. She condemned them as silly, and longed for more demanding fare. Thinking she might prefer fact to fiction, she picked up Mr. Bennet’s newspapers, squinting at their tiny black print, spelling out to herself the unfamiliar names and
places they described, until her eyes hurt and she laid them aside. She read the agricultural magazines to which he subscribed, puzzling at the images of threshing machines and diagrams of crop rotations. She spirited away the pamphlets brought into the house by the servants, with their lurid accounts of horrible crimes and dying confessions, studying the crude black line drawings of hanged men and murdered women, until Mrs. Hill discovered them and carried them angrily off to the kitchen. Sometimes she happened upon more substantial volumes left about by Mr. Bennet, and these she would regard with great curiosity; but she did not dare to open them. Her father’s books were sacrosanct and not to be meddled with by anyone but himself.
The Other Bennet Sister Page 2