When all the formalities had been observed, Mary accompanied her mother to the north of England, where they were to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Bingley until a more permanent settlement could be made for them. However, Mrs. Bennet had not been long in their house before it was apparent she would never willingly leave it. The loss of Mr. Bennet seemed to weigh less heavily on her nerves with Jane to look after her, and Mr. Bingley to ask how she did with such regularly solicitous attention.
Mary, however, did not find her sister’s home so comfortable. She was grateful for the invitation to stay; but somehow, she could not settle. Jane was never less than gracious, but her kindness did not put Mary at her ease. There was something distancing in Jane’s benevolence, bestowed as it was equally upon both those who deserved it and those who did not. It was an admirable quality, but spread so generally that Mary knew it implied no special warmth for her. Jane’s strongest affections were reserved for Mr. Bingley and Lizzy; only they were granted access to her private heart, and Mary knew she would never be invited to join them. This knowledge made Mary’s dependency upon her sister harder to bear than if there had been warmer affection between them.
However, she thought she could have borne this if it had not been for the presence of Caroline Bingley in the household. This lady had none of her brother’s charm and affability; she had always been of a proud, resentful disposition, but disappointment had soured her still further. As Mary had seen at the Netherfield ball, her feelings for Mr. Darcy had been strong, and she had hoped one day to secure him for herself. It had been a cruel humiliation to see another woman preferred; but to have lost him to Elizabeth Bennet, who had neither fortune, family, nor long acquaintance to recommend her, was all but intolerable. In consequence, Caroline Bingley was unhappy and angry in equal measure but, it being impossible to vent her frustration on Mrs. Darcy, she decided to console herself by abusing her sister in her place.
She did not open her campaign until she considered sufficient time had passed since Mr. Bennet’s death, for there were niceties to be observed, even in spite. But once she was satisfied that brief amnesty had expired, Miss Bingley was relentless. She was an accomplished practitioner in the art of insult and knew exactly how to deliver pain in a few well-chosen words, always pronounced with a smile. She began with Mary’s clothes, which presented her with a very obvious target, but one she did not disdain to seize.
“How refreshing it is,” she remarked one afternoon at tea, “to see a young woman with the courage to defy the dictates of fashion, or indeed, those of human nature itself, for most of us are foolish enough to want to look as well as we possibly can. I salute you, Miss Bennet, as an example to us all.”
Mary could think of no reply, and hung her head, unable to meet Miss Bingley’s hard, unflinching simper. She was equally lost for words when, a few days later, Miss Bingley begged, with a very arch expression, for the honour of her advice. She had been asked by a friend who had recently engaged a governess to suggest a suitable dressmaker “whose fees recommend her more than her taste,” and she felt sure Mary would know just such a person.
When she had exhausted the subject of her appearance, Miss Bingley turned to Mary’s books, picking them up and reading out their titles in tones so pompous that both they and their reader were made to look ridiculous.
“Only a very superior understanding could rise to the challenge of such works. Or one which had no other distractions with which to occupy itself. Scholarship is a fine thing, no doubt, but I am not sure I should wish to acquire it at the cost of every social grace.”
On and on it went. Mary bore it with all the resignation she could muster. Sometimes, she looked around to see if anyone else had observed Miss Bingley’s jibes, but they were spoken in such low, confiding tones that no-one seemed to notice them. Mrs. Bennet rarely concerned herself with Mary at all; and Jane seemed so cocooned in happiness that it was impossible anything unpleasant could penetrate her contentment. Only once did Mary catch a disapproving glance directed by Mr. Bingley towards his sister after she had made a particularly disobliging remark in his hearing; but far from correcting her behaviour, his mute rebuke merely encouraged her to take more trouble in concealing it.
For a while, Mary hoped Miss Bingley would grow tired of attacking her; but the weeks went past with no slackening in either her tormentor’s energy or ingenuity, and Mary began to wonder for how much longer she could stand it. She did her best to ignore her, attempting neither to acknowledge nor respond to any hurtful words. But her courage wavered as she understood Miss Bingley’s desire to wound was far greater than her ability to withstand it.
One night, as she sat alone in the drawing room, waiting for the rest of the company to arrive, Mary found herself looking with interest at the piano which occupied pride of place there. It was polished and gleaming but very seldom used; she did not think she had heard anyone attempt it since she arrived. She walked across to it and raised the lid, wondering how it would sound, how the keys would feel under her fingers. It was only when she was seated at the keyboard that it struck her that this must be the very instrument on which she had been playing when her father had so humiliatingly put an end to her performance at Mr. Bingley’s ball. A shiver ran through her as she recalled the shame she had felt, the frantic desire to vanish into thin air. She had not performed in company since, and thought she would never do so again. She trailed her fingers lightly over the keys and struck a single note. The piano was in tune. For a moment she hesitated, the horror of that evening fresh again in her mind. But it had been so long since she had played, especially on an instrument as fine as this. The keyboard was so inviting—the keys so smooth and well balanced—the urge to play overwhelmed her, and before she knew it, she was tearing into a Scottish air with a tremendous attack, quite unlike her usual precise style. It was the very piece which had sealed her fate on that dreadful night, extinguishing so many of her hopes. She had not consciously chosen it; but once she knew what it was, she could not let it go, but drove it passionately towards its conclusion. She was breathless when she finished, lost in the powerful emotions the music had awakened in her. It was only when she felt more composed that she looked up from the keyboard and saw Caroline Bingley standing by the door. It was impossible to say how long she had been there. She smiled her icy, ingratiating smile.
“Please don’t say I have left it too late to hear more.”
Miss Bingley walked towards the piano, her fan in her hand, her expression demure.
“Or perhaps you fear you have delighted us enough already?”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears. She could not speak but stood up and hurried to the door. She caught a glimpse of Miss Bingley’s face as she passed, alive with pleasure at having finally found the tenderest place on which to land her blow.
As Mary ran upstairs to her bedroom, she knew she could stay with Jane no longer. Her spirits were not robust enough to repel Caroline Bingley’s spite, and she saw that if she remained, she would soon become accustomed to her attacks, shrinking a little more each day under her blows until she thought she deserved no better. No, she would not allow herself to become Miss Bingley’s cowed and willing victim. If she was not prepared to fight, then she must retreat, and do so quickly. Pemberley was not far away. Why should she not write to Elizabeth, asking if she might spend a little time with her there? The more she thought about it, the more the idea pleased her. Pemberley would offer her a refuge from Miss Bingley’s bullying, a haven of peace and quiet where she could lick her wounds and recover. But perhaps, she thought, it might do more than that. There she might also find the courage to confront at last the fears that had troubled her for some time. What would become of her now that Mr. Bennet was gone? Where would she live? What could she do? These were questions so painful and so disturbing that she had not allowed herself to reflect upon them since his death, banishing them to the far corners of her mind, from whence they sometimes emerged to taunt her—at night, when she could not sleep, a
fter a particularly painful encounter with Miss Bingley or an afternoon with her mother. At Pemberley, freed from these provocations, she might become calm and rational enough to face the question of her future directly. And perhaps Elizabeth would help her. She was happy now—blissfully so, from all Mary had seen and heard. Surely Lizzy would not grudge a little time to assist and advise a sister who was so very far from enjoying that joyful state herself? Soon Mary had convinced herself this was the best course of action; and as she could think of no other, she decided not to go down to supper but picked up her pen and began to write to Elizabeth straight away.
She did not have to wait long for an answer, and a few days later, her scanty belongings secured on its roof, she clambered into the coach that was to take her to Pemberley. Mrs. Bennet did not come out to say goodbye; early morning departures jangled her nerves. It was Jane who saw her off, standing on the steps alongside Miss Bingley, who waved her away with every appearance of regret at poor dear Mary’s wholly unexpected departure.
Chapter 33
When she arrived at Pemberley, Mary’s first feeling was one of relief. Here there was no-one to insult her or make her miserable; instead, Elizabeth greeted her with a most welcoming smile and took her arm as they made their way through the hallway. She asked no questions about her sudden departure, for which Mary was grateful. She did not feel ready yet to talk about Caroline Bingley.
“Should you like to see over the house? I thought we might take the grand tour after you’ve had tea. I don’t think you saw much of it when you were here before.”
Mary had rarely seen Elizabeth as proud as when they walked together through the huge rooms, her pace quick and eager, her voice lively as she described and pointed and informed, her pleasure in her new establishment apparent in every tireless step. They viewed the sculpture gallery and the most notable family portraits; they stood at the door of the library, which was the largest Mary had ever seen and to which Lizzy was sure Mr. Darcy would be pleased to grant her access when he returned home in a week or so. In the meantime, the sisters established a very comfortable routine. They drank their coffee in the yellow morning room and took tea in Lizzy’s boudoir. They ate alone in the dining room with the Chinese wallpaper, a servant standing behind their chairs. When they needed fresh air, they strolled together through the grounds, Lizzy drawing Mary’s attention to every remarkable feature, to every wood, pond, or possible improvement. Here she thought she might plant a flower garden. In this quiet corner, she had an idea of establishing a school.
But nothing delighted them both as much as the hours they spent in the nursery with young Fitzwilliam Darcy. He sat on Mary’s lap, a sturdy toddler in a white frock, his direct, assessing stare suggesting he was already in possession of his father’s determined will. It was not until their third or perhaps even their fourth encounter that he showed he had also inherited his mother’s charm. He took Mary by surprise, reaching out his hands towards her with a broad, enticing grin, his fingers sticky and warm as they clasped hers, before turning back to his mother and holding up his face for a kiss. It was impossible not to laugh and smile, and Mary did both very readily.
“You seem very happy, Lizzy.”
“Indeed I am. I’m not sure I deserve it; but I intend to behave as if I do. I won’t apologise for the great good luck I’ve been granted. But in truth, Mary, I am really very grateful. I never imagined I would be so admirably suited. And although I don’t choose to let everyone know it, there isn’t a day when I don’t give thanks that things turned out as they did. Not a single day.”
Very moved, Mary reached over and touched Lizzy’s hand. For an instant, Mary felt nothing for her but a rush of affection and a desire it might be returned. She knew she would never forget Lizzy’s betrayal on the night of Mr. Bingley’s ball—for all her attempts to excuse her sister’s behaviour, she could not give it any other name—but had begun to hope that in the future, relations between them might be warmer once more. Lizzy was secure and content, no longer teased and annoyed by her family, desperate to distance herself from the embarrassments they caused her. Perhaps, thought Mary, this serenity would encourage Lizzy to look more kindly upon her, to think more generously of her and her situation. If they could recover just a fraction of the pleasure they had taken in each other’s company when they were young, that would be enough. Mary would not expect more.
As the days rolled by, there were moments when Mary allowed herself to believe her hopes might be realised. It seemed to her that she and Lizzy had become great friends once more, perfectly at ease with each other. They were happy together, requiring no other company. They read, walked, chatted, and played with Fitzwilliam, who now knew Mary well enough to bestow upon her an occasional lordly smile. It was exactly what Mary had once longed for; and she began to feel the weight of the anxiety which burdened her imperceptibly lighten. She wondered if she felt bold enough yet to speak to Lizzy about her future, to confide in her that she did not know where she should go or what should become of her, that she quailed when she thought of the few choices open to her. Could she confess that the thought of living alongside her mother appalled her? Surely Lizzy would understand that particular horror. No-one had more good sense or acute penetration. When she imagined the relief of having Lizzy as her confidante, Mary felt her spirits rise. She would tell her about Caroline Bingley and her taunts. She allowed herself a little smile as she considered how, with a single tart remark, Lizzy would take the sting from Miss Bingley’s insults and make Mary see her as she really was: ridiculous, petty, and eaten up with bitterness. She felt a sense of calm sweep over her; but she did not admit, even to herself, that she had begun to wonder whether she might eventually find a home at Pemberley, whether somewhere in the great house, amidst all the statues and paintings and boudoirs and drawing rooms, there might be a place for her.
Then Mr. Darcy returned. He had been in London on business, and now came home, bringing with him his sister Georgiana, a fine-looking girl of nineteen. Immediately, the tenor of their little party shifted. Mr. Darcy was not a demonstrative man, but his character was of such a strong and decided nature that it could not fail to impress itself very powerfully on those around him. With Lizzy and his sister, his habitual gravity was tempered by affection. To Georgiana he was a kind and indulgent brother; to Lizzy a passionately attached husband. But as the days passed, Mary saw that in her company, he was never at his ease. He was always strictly polite and gentlemanly, but around her, he could not unbend. It was not long before his air of detached correctness unsettled her, and she began to grow self-conscious around him. She did not know how best to raise herself in his opinion. Should she try to join the conversation, attempt a liveliness she did not feel in order to show herself a pleasant and amusing guest? Or was it better to say nothing at all, choosing instead to efface herself as much as possible in the hope of simply escaping his notice?
She soon discovered that neither stratagem worked. When she was silent, she merely confirmed his opinion of her dullness. When she sought to entertain, she always struck the wrong note. Then Elizabeth would intervene, smoothing everything away with a joke or a laugh. Under Lizzy’s tender, amused gaze, her husband became another man, warm, smiling, taken by surprise at his own happiness. Mary once caught a look pass between them of such intimate intensity that she dropped her eyes, as flustered as if she had come upon them alone and unawares. It was this that finally led her to understand there was nothing she could ever do to win Mr. Darcy’s goodwill. It came to her in a flash that he had no desire to bridge the distance between them. He was far too well bred to show it, but she saw with absolute clarity that he longed for her to be gone. Her presence was more than a petty irritant; it was a constraint on his desire to indulge his strongest affections as freely and as openly as he wished. Only when she had left Pemberley could he be himself again, secure amongst those he loved best, unhampered by the company of a stranger at his table, of an awkward guest in the breakfast room, on the te
rrace, in the nursery, anywhere in fact where he wished to be alone with his wife.
Mary felt the truth of this revelation with an almost physical pain, certain that her happy days at Pemberley were numbered. She did not think her welcome would long survive Mr. Darcy’s impatience with her. Indeed, it was painfully apparent that Lizzy had already drifted away from her, preferring to spend her time with her husband rather than her sister; and when he was occupied with business and unavailable to her, Georgiana was always with them. Mary rarely saw Lizzy alone now. The companionable hours they had enjoyed together when she first arrived were not repeated; now it was Georgiana who walked arm in arm with Lizzy, Mary following a few steps behind.
Georgiana Darcy was a timid, watchful girl, somewhat in awe of her brother and plainly delighted to have discovered in Elizabeth such an agreeable and sympathetic friend. Mary often caught her looking at Lizzy with frank adoration; and saw too that her feelings were returned, that Lizzy enveloped her in all the warm affection Mary had hoped might one day be directed towards herself. It was sometimes hard for Mary to watch as her sister coaxed Georgiana delicately out of her shell, encouraging her to think better of herself and not to be afraid of displaying her talents. In the afternoons, they sat in the drawing room as Georgiana practised at the piano, her slender figure shown to advantage as she leant over the keyboard, her pale hands extended in scales and arpeggios. Mary was compelled to admit she played well, so well in fact that she did not dare approach the piano herself, unwilling to suffer by comparison. She tried to banish jealous thoughts, but it hurt to watch Lizzy offering Georgiana all the praise she had once yearned to receive herself. Lizzy never asked Mary to play. Instead, at the end of a particularly demanding piece from Georgiana, Lizzy applauded loudly and turned to Mary, her face shining and delighted.
“Wasn’t that fine? Don’t you think she is extraordinarily good? Have you ever heard anything better done?”
The Other Bennet Sister Page 19