“You must know,” Mrs. Bennet informed her husband one morning at the breakfast table, “that I am thinking of his marrying one of our girls.”
“Do you really imagine,” he replied evenly, “that his principal intention in settling here was to choose a wife from amongst our daughters? It seems an unlikely inducement for signing a year’s lease, even on the most advantageous terms, especially as he has yet to set eyes upon any of them.”
“That will be quickly remedied if you’ll go and call upon him. Once you have introduced yourself, there’s nothing to stop us making a visit. But we can’t do that until you’ve seen him. It wouldn’t be polite.”
“I’m not sure I agree. Why should we make ourselves the prisoners of custom? I see no reason why you and the girls shouldn’t call whenever you choose. Or perhaps they should go alone? You’re still as handsome as any of them, and Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the party.”
Mrs. Bennet was not to be deflected by compliments, however justified she felt them to be.
“Come, Mr. Bennet. You know we can’t go unless you do. It would seem very odd indeed.”
“You may have a point. Perhaps it would be simpler if I wrote to Mr. Bingley, giving my consent in advance to his marrying whichever of our daughters he preferred. That might save a great deal of time and trouble. He could have any of them he wished, though I must throw in a word for my little Lizzy.”
“I’m sure it’s very unkind of you to tease me in this way. If you won’t call, others will not be so delicate. What if Sir William Lucas gets there before you? Will it make you happy to see Charlotte Lucas established at Netherfield? Every moment you delay might be of consequence.”
Mr. Bennet leant back in his chair, satisfied now that his wife was thoroughly agitated.
“I admit you are faced with a dilemma. What is to take precedence, the claims of proper behaviour or the prospect of losing so promising a son-in-law. I’m not sure I can advise you. What say you, Mary? You are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read great books and make extracts.”
Mary looked up, astonished. Surprise forced every intelligent response from her mind, and she could think of nothing to say. Her father stared at her for a moment, deeply amused, before turning his attention back towards his wife.
“Whilst Mary is adjusting her ideas, let us return to Mr. Bingley.”
As her parents resumed their bickering, Mary sat stupefied. It was surely not possible Mr. Bennet had been aware of the little book she had intended to present to him? No, she had shown it to no-one, and it still lay safe in her drawer, his name on the front page, accompanied by a dedication he would never now see. He had perhaps noticed the hours she spent in his library copying out quotations, but he could know nothing of the purpose towards which her work had been directed. It was painfully evident from his arch expression that she had been right not to show it to him. He would not have valued it. Her scholarly ambitions were as ridiculous to him as the hours Kitty and Lydia spent decorating hats or discussing the merits of shoe buckles.
Mary’s spirits were lower than usual at supper and at breakfast the next day. Her father’s disdain weighed heavily on her, and for as long as Mr. Bingley remained the principal subject of conversation, she had nothing to say. Then, on the third evening, the mood around the table suddenly lifted. Her mother beamed; Lydia and Kitty laughed and poked each other. Even Mr. Bennet looked pleased, entirely satisfied with a tease which had delivered everything he could have wished.
It was soon apparent that whilst strenuously maintaining to his family that he would not call upon Mr. Bingley, Mr. Bennet had in fact made his way to Netherfield that very morning and paid his respects. He had always intended to go; but he had resolved not to deny himself the pleasure of provoking his wife by telling her so. Mrs. Bennet did not care. She was delighted that the first obstacle to the marriage of one of her daughters to Mr. Bingley had been surmounted; and she did not doubt any further difficulties would be conquered with equal ease.
A few days later, Mr. Bingley himself arrived at Longbourn to return Mr. Bennet’s visit; but to Mrs. Bennet’s extreme frustration, no-one except her husband was admitted to his presence. He remained closeted in the library, and the only glimpse to be had of him by the female part of the family was from a first-floor window as he rode away, from which all that could be discerned was that he wore a blue jacket and rode a black horse.
When taxed by his wife with inhuman disregard for her feelings in not introducing Mr. Bingley to her, Mr. Bennet replied that the young man had business in London and had not the time for the pleasure of a meeting.
“But he was most insistent I should pass on his apologies to you and all the young ladies of the household. He added that he hopes to have the pleasure of seeing us all at the next Meryton assembly, which he is determined to attend. And, as two of his sisters will accompany him, alongside some other friends and relations, he looks forward to introducing them into your company, as well as himself. A rather exhaustingly polite young man, in my opinion.”
Kitty and Lydia cheered out loud at this news. Once they had satisfied themselves that Mr. Bingley was not in the militia and did not wear a uniform, their interest in him had waned somewhat; but the arrival of other young men was a prospect that could only be greeted with enthusiasm, for it was entirely possible that some amongst them might be officers.
Chapter 16
As the assembly was only a few weeks away, Mrs. Hill was soon hard at work, cleaning, repairing, taking in and letting out, doing all she could to ensure that the Longbourn outfits were fit to be seen alongside the metropolitan fashions which were sure to be worn by Mr. Bingley’s female guests. One evening, as she came into her bedroom, Mary found Mrs. Hill examining the new dress she had bought for the last ball, brushing down its neat bodice and shaking out its cream-and-gold skirts.
“Shall you wear it, do you think? This would be very much the right occasion to show it off again.”
“It didn’t bring me much luck on its last outing.”
Mrs. Hill put down the dress and sat on the bed.
“I saw Mr. Sparrow in Meryton last week. He told me John is gone off, headed for London to become a doctor. He stopped me in the street as pleased as anything. He’s sure the boy will end up with a practice in town, appointments at a guinea a time, and his own carriage waiting at the door.”
Mary walked to the window. She did not want Mrs. Hill to see the regret she suspected must be only too plainly written on her face. There was no chance now of apologising for her behaviour. She would never be able to make amends for the way she had treated him.
“What I mean by telling you,” continued Mrs. Hill, “is that you don’t need to fret about seeing him again at the assembly.” She picked up the dress and placed it carefully on a hanger. “He is a sweet-tempered lad, but not right for you.”
“He was kind and generous and seemed to enjoy my company. That was pleasure enough for me.”
“Your parents would never have stood for it.”
Mary considered this. Her father, she thought, with his contrary spirit, might have enjoyed watching such an unlikely connection unfold, relishing the opportunities it offered to exercise his wit at the expense of all concerned. Her mother, however, would never have appreciated the joke. She would have opposed it with all the considerable reserves of outrage at her command; and hers would have been the last word on the matter, at least until young Mr. Sparrow, the oculist’s assistant, had transformed himself into Dr. Sparrow the wealthy physician.
“Perhaps I was simply unfortunate in my timing. If Mr. Sparrow had been already in possession of that carriage you mentioned, then things might have been very different.”
Mrs. Hill shrugged.
“That’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”
“All we did was dance together. I didn’t want to marry him, you know. How could I, when I hardly know him? I merely liked talking to him. No-one has ever sought me out before or
listened with interest to anything I say. He noticed me and made me laugh; and for that, he earned the contempt of everyone around me. And I was so swayed by their prejudice that I crumpled up and ran away. That was a fine return for his kindness.”
“Well, what’s done is done.”
Mrs. Hill stood up; she had work to do and they could hear Lydia’s impatient voice in the hall.
“Far worse things have happened, and men and women have lived to tell the tale. But I hope you’ll go to the assembly, and not stay at home brooding over what can’t be altered. And I think you should wear the new dress. It suits you, and it’s wasted hanging in the wardrobe.”
Over the next few days, Mary’s thoughts blew this way and that, uncertain whether she would follow Mrs. Hill’s advice or not. Sometimes, she quailed at the prospect of another ball, having experienced at first hand the dangers and humiliations that lay in wait for the unwary. But another part of her bridled at the idea of hiding herself away. She suspected if she did not go, it would become easier to refuse the next time and the next, until she turned herself into a complete recluse. No, however reluctant she was, she must go.
But although she eventually persuaded herself it was right to attend, nothing could convince Mary to wear the gold-and-cream gown. Its delicate prettiness did not suit her mood. Instead, ignoring Mrs. Hill’s pleas, she put on a plain dress and twisted her hair into an unbecoming knot at the back of her head. When she glanced in the mirror, she saw a colourless figure, her face pale, her clothes drab. There was nothing about her to attract anyone’s attention; even to herself she seemed almost invisible. For a few moments, she looked at her reflection without expression. Then she slipped her spectacles into a little bag. There was no reason not to take them.
She said little on the journey into Meryton, but her mother and sisters more than made up for her silence. Kitty and Lydia, determined not to sit out a single dance, were already arguing about whom they should dance with, and in what order. Mrs. Bennet was vocal in her eagerness to set eyes at last upon Mr. Bingley, and declared herself almost as keen to meet the rest of his party, for who knew if it might not contain another eligible young man? Jane and Elizabeth refused to speculate about what the ball might promise, but Mary thought she caught even in them a sense of excitement. Only she felt nothing at all as the carriage pulled into the village.
Chapter 17
The Meryton rooms were as hot and as crowded as she remembered them. The green boughs on the walls were just as charming, the candles just as numerous and, as the strong smell of tallow suggested, bought just as cheaply as before. Through the great double doors she saw, as she had done before, a generous supper being laid out; and in the centre of the ballroom, couples were beginning to take their places for the next dance. It was all as it had been when she was last there; but this time, she knew better where she belonged. She walked decidedly towards the chairs where the mothers, aunts, and grandmothers had established themselves and looked for a place to sit amongst them. Her sisters claimed seats here too, but Mary knew they would use them only as perches to rest upon between dances, poised to be seen to most advantage before another partner presented himself and whisked them away. Mary, who suspected her stay would be of longer duration, settled on a chair set a little away from the front, where she hoped to feel less exposed.
Here for some thirty minutes she remained, uninvited to join the lively throng on the dance floor. As she sat, her eyes strayed upwards to the musicians on the balcony, playing with such energy that she could almost feel the heat of their efforts. Perhaps, she thought, that was where she should be—occupied in a task she enjoyed, safely removed from the probability of failure below. As she brooded, however, she became conscious of a ripple of interest in the conversations around her, a twitter of activity amongst the seated mothers. Following their glances, nods, and gestures, peering across the room she saw that a small party of people had arrived and stood surveying the scene. She did not recognise any amongst them, but their clothes and bearing suggested there could be no doubt who they were—Mr. Bingley and his friends had arrived at last.
Mr. Bingley—for, as he stood at the front of the little group, urging them forward, there could be little doubt of his identity—was a good-looking young man, with a cheerful, engaging expression. Behind him stood two women dressed in the first fashion who Mary concluded must be his sisters. They looked less eager than their brother to plunge into the crowded room. Neither smiled. Two further gentlemen accompanied them. One, who was later discovered to be the husband of the eldest sister, was not much noticed; but the other quickly drew the attention of everyone in the room. He was tall, he was handsome, and he was known to be the possessor of a fine estate in Derbyshire. For a while, his appearance and his history attracted the approval of the men and alerted the interest of the women; but Mr. Darcy’s manners soon turned the tide of his popularity. His expression was grave and severe. He made no effort to conciliate the assembly and, unlike his friend, seemed to take no pleasure in his situation. Mr. Bingley’s willingness to please and be pleased was much to be preferred. He allowed himself to be introduced to as many people as wished to meet him, praised the look of the rooms, the liveliness of the music, and the prospect of supper; and when he made known his intention to dance every dance, his ascendancy over his remote and silent friend was complete.
It did not escape notice that Mr. Darcy took to the floor only with the women of his own party, whilst Mr. Bingley chose his partners from amongst the Meryton ladies. Mary watched as he led Charlotte Lucas onto the floor. This was an unexpected gesture; his choice of her sister Jane for the next dance seemed far more in keeping with the natural order of things. Jane, she thought, looked particularly handsome, her cool, unruffled beauty appearing to great advantage amidst the noise and heat of the ball. Bingley danced with her with obvious enjoyment and seemed reluctant to let her go, claiming her company after the set was over and talking to her with great animation, as Jane modestly looked away from his appraising smiles. He will ask her again, thought Mary, if not now, then later. This will be a triumphant night for Jane.
She was surprised when Charlotte Lucas sat down next to her. Mary had avoided her since the last ball. She did not doubt that the fault for what had happened then was in most respects her own; but she thought Charlotte a little guilty too. Had there been a hint of relish in the way she had delivered her warning about John Sparrow? A touch of jealousy in her insistence that Mary abandon him? These were unworthy thoughts, which Mary was ashamed to entertain; but as she had been unable yet to drive them from her mind, she had chosen not to put herself in Charlotte’s company until she could get the better of them. However, as Charlotte greeted her with every appearance of friendship, Mary resolved to do all she could to return it in good faith.
“You have tucked yourself away in a very secluded place here,” she began. “Is this a wise decision? No-one will ask you to dance if you are invisible to the human eye!”
She smiled as she spoke, but behind her good humour, her face was taut.
“Oh, I’m quite well where I am. I can see everything here. I don’t miss a thing.”
“I’m not sure that’s quite true. Watching what happens isn’t the same as being part of it. You are missing something, of that you can be sure.”
“This feels like the best place for me.”
“Perhaps, if you have already decided to withdraw from the fray.”
Unsettled by the turn of the conversation, Mary tried a lighter tone.
“Well, your own good fortune won’t have gone unnoticed tonight. You were the first woman Mr. Bingley stood up with—what an honour, to be marked out in such a way!”
She tried to sound as sincere and as playful as she could. She did not much care for Charlotte, but she did not like to see her in so bleak a mood.
Charlotte looked towards the dance floor, where Mr. Bingley was leading Jane out again for a second dance.
“Yes,” she replied thoughtful
ly. “I was the polite choice, the evidence, if you like, of his good manners and willingness to charm us all. But he didn’t look at me as he already looks at Jane.”
Mary followed Charlotte’s glance. It was true, Mr. Bingley was now utterly absorbed with her sister, his eyes following her as she moved up the line of dancers.
“I know very well what I must do and say next,” continued Charlotte. “I must smile and nod and look unconcerned at my dismissal, whilst laughing and teasing Jane about her new conquest. And that is what I will do. I’m used to it. But I tell you what it is, Mary—I’m not sure if I can do it for much longer.”
Mary shifted uneasily in her seat. Charlotte’s sudden candour disturbed her, and she was uncertain how to respond.
“I am nearly twenty-seven years old. I have been coming to balls like this for ten years. And not once has anyone looked at me with the admiration Mr. Bingley is now directing at Jane. Not once have I been the one around whom other women gather, congratulating, and exclaiming. No—it is always my lot to cheer on the triumphs of my friends.” She pulled at her gloves distractedly. “Lord knows, I don’t expect much. But I should like to have something of my own before it is too late. Some mark of affection, some sign I have been wanted and preferred.”
“You have parents who love you,” ventured Mary, “and brothers and sisters to care for.”
“Yes,” replied Charlotte, “and I know that should be enough, but with every day that goes past, I find that it isn’t, quite.”
Mary moved her hand uncertainly towards Charlotte’s arm. She did not trust herself to speak, recognising in Charlotte’s words the same fears that had begun to loom large in her own darker moments. What if no-one ever wanted her? Her spirits fell as she looked around the room; none of the men she saw there seemed likely to prefer her to the prettier, louder, livelier women who paraded and coquetted about the floor with so much confidence. This was only her second ball, and she already felt she had failed. Could she endure a decade of humiliation and rejection with the fortitude Charlotte had shown? Mary withdrew her hand, afraid her touch might provoke in Charlotte an outpouring of emotion to which Mary would not know how to respond. She felt the power of Charlotte’s despair, and it saddened her. But then Charlotte looked up and arranged her features into her usual expression of pleasant expectation.
The Other Bennet Sister Page 9