Mary shook her head.
“No, I do not think I have. Well done, Georgiana.”
Her face faintly flushed from exertion, Georgiana smiled briefly towards Mary before rushing to sit at Elizabeth’s side, the better to enjoy her approbation. Georgiana did not speak to Mary, but she rarely did. Her silence was in part a product of her shyness; but Mary suspected there was more to it than that. Sometimes she caught Georgiana observing her with mild, puzzled surprise. What exactly are you doing here? she seemed to ask. However did this happen? And how long do you mean to stay? There was no malice in her curiosity, just a faint whiff of bemusement. As Mary watched Georgiana engage Lizzy in cheerful conversation, in which it was clear she could have no part, she began to ask herself the same questions.
Later that evening, resting on her bed before dinner, already dressed but conscious it was too early to go down, Mary heard the sound of one of her favourite sonatas coming from the piano below. She would have known Lizzy’s style anywhere, bold and blithely indifferent to the odd false note. She sat up; as the sonata came to an end, she heard laughter, voices raised in pleasure. There was a pause; then a new piece began, played with a delicacy that could only be Georgiana’s. Quietly, she stole downstairs and stood outside the door, listening. No-one looked towards her. There was Georgiana, intent at the keyboard, her expression rapt. There was Mr. Darcy standing at her side, turning the pages of the music, smiling as he never did when Mary was near. And there too was Lizzy, her hand draped over her husband’s arm, looking up at him with transparent affection, whilst their little son played at their feet, banging his toys in a rhythm that did not entirely complement the beauty of the song. The foursome was as perfectly composed as a painting, handsome, charming, and entirely self-contained.
Georgiana finished the piece with a flourish. Mr. Darcy proudly patted her shoulder whilst Lizzy clapped her hands. Mary closed her eyes and turned away. It was impossible for her to go in and join them. Her presence would only break the spell. In that moment, Mary understood that whilst she would never be treated harshly at Pemberley, there were other ways of being made to understand you were not required. Mr. Darcy would never warm to her. He might tolerate her for Elizabeth’s sake, but in his eyes, she would always be the worst possible version of herself, gauche, clumsy, and dull. Georgiana’s situation was very different. She would never be a guest to be endured on sufferance. She was family, loved by both her brother and Lizzy, always welcome to make her home with them. If there was a place at Pemberley for an unmarried sister, Mary knew, as she watched the little group around the piano, it was not for her. She did not belong in these elegant rooms, amongst these beautiful people. They had each other, and that was enough.
When Mary told her sister she intended to leave Pemberley, Elizabeth had not entirely understood the reasons for her decision but did not press her too hard for an explanation. Perhaps she too had begun to sense Mr. Darcy’s irritation with Mary’s presence; and forced to decide between preserving the comfort of a beloved husband and her duty to an awkward sister, she did not protest very convincingly when Mary announced her departure. Mary’s proposed destination, however, surprised her. She found it hard to believe she intended to visit Longbourn.
“But why should you want to go there? It must be full of so many painful associations.”
Mary did not choose to explain that her present circumstances were hardly conducive to happiness, nor to confess that she could think of nowhere else to go.
“I think I should like to be somewhere familiar again, to be surrounded by places I know. I hope I might find it consoling.”
“Really? It seems a strange way of seeking solace. Won’t it distress you to see the Collinses established in our old home? I’m not sure I’d want to see Mr. Collins at his ease in our father’s library. Or Charlotte presiding over our mother’s tea table.”
“Yes, I don’t doubt that will be difficult. But I’ll be able to walk in the woods and sit in the garden. I can read Papa’s books. And Charlotte could not have urged me more eagerly to come.”
Lizzy said no more. Mary was too tactful to add that the prospect of seeing Charlotte had in fact been one of the principal inducements which had driven her to beg an invitation to Longbourn. She was desperate to discuss her unhappy state with someone; she understood now that neither Jane nor Lizzy could help her. Securely settled with men they loved, they could have no understanding of her fears. Charlotte, however, was a different matter, for she knew what it was to feel hopeless and alone. Mary had not always found her advice palatable, or agreed with her conclusions, but she longed to talk to someone who had once shared her predicament. Perhaps the ideas that had so shocked her when Charlotte first confessed them might not seem so dreadful now. The experience of the last two years had certainly helped her understand why Charlotte had embraced them so determinedly. And in her secret heart, Mary hoped that her stay at Longbourn would result in something more than guidance. She longed to find out whether Charlotte had been right when she insisted a marriage founded on self-interest rather than love stood as good a chance as most unions of turning out well. Were Charlotte and Mr. Collins happy? And if so, should Mary make up her mind to follow Charlotte’s example? But she said none of this to Lizzy.
Chapter 34
As the carriage jolted along on the final approach to the house, Mary felt her whole body tense. When they cleared the trees, she would see Longbourn again. Then, as the familiar outline came into view, she gasped—she could not help herself—and leant forward keenly to take it all in. At first glance, everything seemed as it had always been, the house sitting with its usual confidence in its small park. But as she drew nearer, Mary saw that Longbourn presented a far smarter face to the world than it had done when the Bennets occupied it. The gravel drive was swept and weeded, the window frames neatly restored, and the front door painted a deep and lustrous black. Yet there was no time for her to absorb these changes before the door was flung open and the lady of the house appeared. As Mary climbed down from the carriage, it rushed into her mind that she must not forget to call Charlotte “Mrs. Collins.” But before she knew it, she found herself kissing Charlotte’s cheek, her arm taken firmly as she was led into the house which, until so recently, had been her home.
In the drawing room, sitting down to tea, they were formal with each other at first. Enquiries were made into the health of the Bingleys, the state of Mrs. Bennet’s nerves, and the well-being of the Darcy family. Mary confirmed she had left them all in good spirits.
“Elizabeth particularly asked to be remembered to you.”
Charlotte smiled politely.
“I’m very glad to hear she is happy. Though it must be difficult not to be so, established as she is.”
“Yes, she has been very fortunate. I think she knows it and is thankful.”
Charlotte inclined her head but said nothing more. The affection between Charlotte and Lizzy had never recovered from the blow dealt to it by Lizzy’s horrified response to Charlotte’s acceptance of Mr. Collins’s proposal. Charlotte was not easily disconcerted; but she had not forgotten the shame she had felt as Lizzy stared at her with frank disbelief, unable to credit that any woman of sense could consider such a man as a suitor. Charlotte had been glad when Lizzy married and moved away to Derbyshire, and had steadfastly refused Mr. Collins’s entreaties to solicit an invitation to Pemberley. When asked to attend the celebrations for young Fitzwilliam’s christening, she had declined. She suspected Elizabeth had not changed her opinion, of either her marriage or her husband; and did not care to be reminded of either by her disapproval or pity. The friendship that had sustained them for so many years had withered, little by little, until nothing was left of it but the occasional exchange of mild civilities.
Charlotte leant across the table and poured more tea into Mary’s cup. Mary was struck by her air of prosperity and self-possession. She was carefully dressed, in clothes that bespoke quality rather than the first fashion; but their
rich sobriety suited her. Along with her new wardrobe, Charlotte had acquired an air of easy authority that had not been noticeable when she was merely Miss Lucas, an unmarried woman fast approaching the perils of her thirties with no suitor in view.
“I see you have put on your cap, Charlotte. As you always said you would.”
Charlotte laughed.
“Yes, I believe I once told you I should do so, one way or another. But I must admit, it gives me far more pleasure to wear it as a wife than as an old maid.”
Mary flinched a little—these were not words she liked to hear—but Charlotte did not seem to notice.
“Mr. Collins apologises that he is not here to join me in welcoming you. He has business in Hertford, but if he is not too much detained, he will join us for dinner.”
She leant back in her chair, and fixed Mary with a steady, assessing gaze.
“And what of yourself, Mary? Tell me how things are with you. Mr. Collins and I were both delighted to receive your letter. You know, I hope, that you will always be welcome at Longbourn, whenever you choose to visit us. May I offer you some sugar?”
Mary shook her head.
“But I confess I was also a little surprised. We had imagined you happily settled with Jane or Elizabeth.”
“Yes, both have been very generous. Indeed, all my sisters have been most solicitous. Jane says I may always stay with her. Kitty asked me to join her at the rectory, and even Lydia—well, that would hardly suit, but it was a kindness in her to ask.”
“And did none of those possibilities appeal?”
Mary felt apprehension rise up within her. Part of her wanted to throw off her bonnet, and cry, No, no, none of them will work, they will all grow tired of me, and then what will I do? Tell me! But she was not ready to confess her deepest fears to a young woman who seemed altogether more commanding and less vulnerable than the Charlotte she remembered. Flustered, she pulled her glasses from her pocket and began to twist them in her hands.
“I think it would be a great fault in me to make so important a decision as my place of habitation without allowing time for proper reflection. I have many important considerations to … consider. And it is rightly said that those who make judgements in haste will repent in leisure.”
Charlotte smiled a brisk little smile.
“Indeed it is. Well, I hope you will find your stay here conducive to such serious thinking. I shall certainly do all I can to make it so. Now, if you don’t think it will distress you, I wonder if you would like to see over the house before resting? We have made a number of improvements since—since we arrived. I should very much like to hear your opinion of them.”
For the first time, Mary looked properly around her. She had been so intent on mastering her own feelings that she had barely registered her surroundings. The drawing room had been quite transformed. The sofas were newly covered, the walls distempered, and the floor sanded. At the windows hung curtains of dark figured velvet. As Mary contemplated their splendour, Charlotte looked on with deep satisfaction.
“They look very well, don’t they? I bought them at the sale when the Collingwoods sold up. There’s a little woman in Meryton who can do anything with a needle. She cut them down for me. I was in agonies when she wielded the scissors, but I own I’m delighted with the result.”
Mary nodded obligingly, and followed Charlotte as she marched down the old, familiar passages. It was unsettling to be shown around a house where she had lived for so long as if she were a stranger; and the sight of so many well-remembered objects and places brought a lump to her throat. There on the landing stood the long clock, exiled from the drawing room after Lydia’s shoe, thrown in a passion at Kitty, had cracked its glass and stopped its pendulum. There was the little table in whose drawer her mother had kept her needles, wrapped up in a silk bag that always smelled of camphor. Everywhere she looked, something recalled the past with such force that Mary was almost overpowered by sadness and regret; but she kept her polite smile in place, and did nothing to halt the flow of her guide’s enthusiasm. Charlotte’s initial consideration for Mary’s feelings had quickly evaporated, her delicacy entirely eclipsed by her pride in her home. Mary was led into every room and urged to admire it, encouraged to inspect every new-built cupboard and every blackened fire grate. She did so without complaint, until she had exhausted every word of praise and approval at her command. Finally, she could think of nothing more to say than that the house even smelled very fresh and sweet.
“I have a floor polish made to my own recipe flavoured with oil of lavender. It is these little touches that make such a difference,” Charlotte said, as she looked around her, entirely satisfied with her domain and confident it had been displayed to the very best advantage.
“But now I should like to show you my greatest achievement. I think he will be awake now.”
In the nursery, Mary’s heart missed a beat as she took a seat near the fire, where she and Elizabeth had once sat, books in hand, making out her letters. Now she was introduced to the room’s new owner. William Collins was a stocky, fair-haired toddler, who, when released from his mother’s hugs, stared curiously at Mary from the safety of her lap.
“He is a very fine child,” declared Mary. “You know, he looks at me in exactly the same way as Lizzy’s son—the same frank and interested look! You must be very proud of him.”
“Oh, yes, in my opinion, he is a prodigy amongst boys. And of course, he is somewhat older than Fitzwilliam. I imagine William is much further on—he must be taller, more forward? He even talks a little.”
Charlotte stroked her son’s downy head, as delighted by her child as she was by her house.
“He is a very remarkable child. Everyone says so.”
It was almost dark by the time Mary was released to rest for a while before dinner.
“I’m sure I don’t need to show you to your room,” declared Charlotte, as she made her way to the kitchen to ensure all was in order there. “You will hardly have forgotten where to find it.”
As she pushed open the door, Mary saw that a few candles were already lit, and that her bag was open on the bed. At her dressing table stood Mrs. Hill, who was calmly unpacking her brushes and unfolding her clothes, as if they had seen each other only yesterday.
“Mrs. Hill! I am so very pleased to see you!”
“As I am to see you, Miss Mary. It has been a long time since we last spoke.”
“I hope all is well with you and Mr. Hill?”
“Yes, thank you. It was great relief to us when Mrs. Collins decided to keep us on. I should have been very sad to leave Longbourn.”
“I understand that only too well.”
“Of course, it is different with all of you gone. It will never be the same without your poor father. And Mrs. Collins is very exacting. But we rub along together quite happily.”
For a while, Mary answered enquiries about the health of her mother and sisters, receiving in return all the limited news that Meryton could supply. At first, Mrs. Hill asked no difficult questions; it was only when she began to hang up Mary’s clothes that she betrayed a curiosity about Mary’s situation.
“Is this what you wore at Pemberley, miss?”
“Yes, we were just family whilst I was there, no formality at all.”
“But for evenings you must have had something smarter to put on. Did you not choose to bring it with you?”
“I left my better things there, so as not to give trouble. So much packing and unpacking.” She looked away, trying not to meet Mrs. Hill’s sceptical eye. “And we are told not to think too much of our appearance. The sin of pride, you know.”
“What about the dress you wore to the Meryton ball? I always thought that looked very well on you. It seems a pity not to have it with you.”
“I’m afraid it is a very long time since I have had occasion to wear it. But if I had known Longbourn had become so grand, I should certainly have given it an airing.”
Mrs. Hill looked about to ask more,
then instead confined herself to observing that those dresses Mary had brought would be improved by a little care and attention, and that with her help, Mary would cut as credible a figure as was possible with such outfits.
Chapter 35
By the time Mary walked into the dining room, Charlotte was already in place, presiding at the top of the table. She seemed even smarter and more sleek than she had done in daylight, straight-backed and assured, head held high. She fitted effortlessly into her surroundings, a perfect complement to the glowing furniture and newly gilded mirrors, the last piece of a jigsaw that completed a picture of domestic order and content. To her surprise, Mary found herself faintly in awe of this new version of her old acquaintance. In a few years, Charlotte would be an imposing figure; by the time she was forty, she would be quite formidable.
“I do not know what is keeping Mr. Collins,” Charlotte remarked. “He is usually a most punctilious timekeeper.”
The two women were drinking their first glass of wine by the time Mr. Collins came hurrying into the room.
“My dear Miss Bennet, how can I apologise enough? I was detained by the bishop, and it was not in my power to leave. It was most unfortunate, but as I’m sure you’ll agree, our personal inclinations must always give way to the duties owed to superior rank.”
Charlotte signalled to a servant to fill Mr. Collins’s glass. Her husband was flustered, put at a disadvantage by his late arrival.
“I regret to say, Mrs. Collins, that I might have been a little earlier had I not been incommoded by the absence of a few necessities in my dressing room. The clean neckcloths were not where I have become used to finding them.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” replied his wife evenly. “I will speak to Mrs. Hill. But I’m glad to see you are suitably attired now, and no doubt ready to greet our old friend.”
The Other Bennet Sister Page 20