The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  Mollified, Mr. Collins turned to Mary with a broad, accommodating smile.

  “You are most welcome, Miss Bennet. I will not say to our home, as that might seem a painful allusion to a house that was so recently your own place of residence, and might have remained so, had circumstances been different. But man proposes, God disposes, as it is most justly said. I hope that gives you some comfort.”

  “Why, yes, sir,” Mary replied. “We are all of us subject to the caprices of fortune.”

  “Mary has just returned from a long visit to Pemberley,” volunteered Charlotte smoothly. “I’m sure you will want to hear how she found everyone there.”

  As Mary recounted the particulars of her stay in Derbyshire, the air of awkwardness around the table began to dissipate, helped by the excellent red wine which Charlotte ensured was in generous supply. Mr. Collins listened with every appearance of interest to all Mary could tell him about the various livings held by Mr. Darcy and the parsonage houses attached to them. Once he understood that few of them produced tithes equal to those he himself enjoyed, he grew increasingly affable. Charlotte said little, but Mary noticed she was assiduous in ensuring that every dish reached his end of the table before her husband asked for it. The food was plentiful and of a far higher quality than Mary recalled had been served at Lucas Lodge.

  “May I compliment you on the dinner, Charlotte? It really is very good.”

  “Thank you, Mary. I was determined to do all I could to maintain the reputation Longbourn had always enjoyed for the excellence of its cooking. I’m very pleased if you think I’ve succeeded.”

  Warmed up and calmed down with a few grilled soles and a leg of lamb, Mr. Collins turned a benevolent face towards his wife.

  “My dear Charlotte is an excellent manager. As you will have seen for yourself, everything at Longbourn bespeaks taste and comfort, and always in a style appropriate to the station in which Providence has been pleased to place us.”

  Charlotte did not meet Mr. Collins’s fond smile but dropped her eyes to her plate. When he reached across to pat her hand, she did not respond. His hand lingered above hers for only a moment before he withdrew it, busying himself with the dessert and asking Mary whether Mr. Darcy had put up any pheasants in his park. For the rest of the meal, Charlotte was all attentiveness, helping Mr. Collins to the ripest slice of cheese or the choicest piece of fruit; but it seemed to Mary as if there was a coolness in her solicitude. Perhaps they were merely tired. Mary felt herself to be on the edge of exhaustion and was relieved when Charlotte finally rose from the table, firmly conveying that supper was over.

  “Mr. Collins, Mary and I will leave you to finish your wine. She has had a long journey and I’m sure she’s in great need of sleep, although she is far too polite to show it.”

  As they left, Mary glanced behind her. The room shimmered in the candlelight, glowing with warmth and prosperity. At the table, Mr. Collins sat alone, cracking nuts with solitary concentration as he poured himself another glass of wine.

  A little later, Mary lay in the dark of her old room, comforted to find that although the bed had new hangings, the springs of the mattress still creaked in the way she remembered. As she stared up at the freshly painted ceiling, she reflected on what had been a most extraordinary day. Revisiting the house had not proved as painful as she had expected. Although there were moments when she found herself almost unbearably moved, as some small corner or chance encounter brought back to her such a strong sense of the past that it almost overwhelmed her, this had happened less often than she had feared. Charlotte’s improvements had scrubbed away so much that was familiar about Longbourn as she had known it, had so efficiently erased the life the Bennets had lived there, that little remained to prompt regret for what had gone.

  Charlotte herself had proved almost as transformed as the house. It seemed to Mary as if Charlotte had grown in every way—in confidence, stature, and self-possession. The word that best described her, Mary thought, with all its connotations of order and security, was established. Watching her as she managed the little empire of her household and garden, as she hugged her child and marshalled her servants, as she transformed the appearance of Longbourn into a vision of her own imagining, it was impossible not to believe she had found the place in the world she had always longed for. Judged on those terms, it seemed impossible to argue with the bargain Charlotte had made when she married. But as Mary finally drifted off to sleep, she remembered Charlotte’s refusal to meet her husband’s eyes, the bleak impression of Mr. Collins staring into his wine as she and Charlotte left the room. They cast a shadow over the rosy glow of her first impressions. Mary pushed them to the back of her mind. Rational observation, not the unreliable promptings of emotion, should be her guide. Reason would conclude whether Charlotte’s choice had been correct, and whether it was one she might consider adopting for herself.

  Chapter 36

  In the weeks that followed, Mary’s days took on a pattern that suited her very well. She breakfasted in her room, staying aloof from the early morning bustle of the family, joining Charlotte only when the floors were swept, young William fed, and that night’s dinner ordered. When everyone else was busy, she sat at the old familiar piano and played for as long as her fingers would allow. At Longbourn, there was neither competition for a seat at the keyboard nor any risk she would be mortified by the superior skills of another. In the afternoons, she tried to be useful, following Charlotte into the garden in a borrowed apron, pruning knife in hand; sometimes she carried a basket to the poultry yard to gather eggs. Each day was perfectly uneventful; and slowly, the despair that had come upon her in Derbyshire began to lose the sharp edge of its pain. Now it was a dull ache of sadness which she was resolved to conquer if she could. At the dinner table, she forced herself not to think of how it had looked when she and her sisters crowded around it; and when she saw Charlotte sewing in her mother’s chair, sitting exactly as Mrs. Bennet had done in order to catch the light, she compelled herself not to turn away. But for all her determination to accustom herself to the new order of things, she still felt a pang of grief when she walked past her father’s library, which she had not yet had the courage to enter. And she declined to accompany Charlotte on social visits, knowing herself not yet ready to brave the curiosity of her old neighbours, who would demand to know, with no sense of delicacy, what she intended to do, where she planned to go. As she had no answer to give, she preferred to avoid all such encounters whenever she could. Still, in general, she found the steady routine of life at Longbourn congenial enough. No-one harassed or teased her; and she never felt exposed or out of place. Charlotte was solicitous but not overbearing, and Mary began to enjoy her company. It was some time before it occurred to her just how much of Charlotte’s time was available to her. One afternoon, as they were cutting the last of the tulips to take into the house, it struck Mary how rarely they encountered Mr. Collins and how very little time he and his wife spent together.

  “I imagine,” she asked tentatively, “that Mr. Collins is very occupied with business during the day?”

  “He certainly has a great deal to do,” replied Charlotte. “The time of a clergyman can scarcely be called his own.”

  “But even when he is at leisure, he rarely joins us here or walks with us in the evenings. Does he like to be so solitary?”

  “I do not think he minds it. He is at present very taken up with making a little arbour near the orchard. It was a suggestion of mine he has quite seized upon. He is doing much of the work himself, which is most beneficial for his health. I hope to have a seat placed there when it is finished.”

  “Should you like to go and help him, Charlotte? I am very happy to continue here alone.”

  Charlotte reached out and grasped a particularly fine bloom, snipping it briskly through the stem.

  “No thank you, Mary, I am very well where I am. We shall all meet again for dinner soon enough.”

  Seeing there was no more to be said, Mary put down
her scissors, gathered her flowers into an orderly bunch, and began to walk back to the house. As she rounded the yew hedge, she caught sight of Mr. Collins in the distance. With his coat off, and his shirtsleeves rolled up, he was digging at the ground with a furious intensity. She watched him until he threw down the spade and, wiping his brow with his sleeve, leant disconsolately against the garden wall. He did not look happy. Mary turned away abruptly, keen he should not see her. It was an unsettling encounter; she felt almost as though she had intruded on some private grief.

  Over the next few nights, she watched her hosts with a new awareness. Charlotte was as unruffled as ever, smilingly deferential to her husband. But the more Mary studied him, the more uneasy Mr. Collins seemed. Mary saw how often he tried to catch Charlotte’s eye, or to engage her in conversation, and how with every appearance of politeness, she always avoided him. Eventually, disheartened, he said no more, but looked away in silence. Mary had no doubt now of his state of mind. She was too familiar with the experience of misery not to recognise its familiar marks on another. But what, she asked herself, had Mr. Collins to be unhappy about? He had a comfortable home, the wife he had wanted, and a healthy son in the nursery. What could have lowered his spirits to such a degree? It was true Charlotte was not the most demonstrative of spouses, and did not seem much given to public displays of affection; but she always showed the utmost consideration for his wishes, and no hint of irritation or ill-temper ever escaped her lips. Mary’s own parents had not always lived well together, but the causes of their dissatisfaction had been easy to understand, and all too forcefully expressed. Whatever troubled Mr. Collins was not nearly so apparent.

  Perhaps it had nothing to do with his circumstances. Perhaps his character had a disposition to melancholy. Even in her limited experience of life, she had observed that some people were miserable in the midst of prosperity, whilst others remained cheerful in even the harshest of conditions. Lydia, for example, was never really cast down, even though her circumstances could hardly be described as easy. Whereas she herself … She did not like to complete that thought, preferring instead to ask herself the question in more abstract terms. How, she mused, are we to understand happiness, and the ways in which it is brought about? Is it determined by inherited temperament? Or is it all a matter of chance, a quality arbitrarily bestowed on some but not on others? Do our circumstances matter? Are beauty and wealth more likely to produce happiness than goodness and self-sacrifice? And is there anything an individual can do to improve their own sense of contentment and satisfaction?

  As Mary considered these questions, it occurred to her that she might usefully pursue them further. It had been some time since she had applied her mind to a weighty intellectual question; and this one seemed especially suited to her current circumstances. Her father’s library was particularly well provided with the philosophical works she would require, and there were no other calls on her time to distract her. Besides, she felt ready to exercise her reason again, to pit it against a challenge which would call on all her resources of concentration and effort. She did not deny that there was also a more personal application to such a study. An exploration of the nature of happiness could add to her understanding of her own situation, and might even counter her own strong tendency to despair.

  The following afternoon, as Charlotte stood in the hall, tying on her hat in preparation for a visit to Lady Lucas, Mary asked if she might have permission to spend a few hours in the library whilst she was gone. Young William gambolled about their feet, banging his favourite toy on the stairs. Charlotte scooped him up, laughing.

  “I cannot imagine why the peace of that comfortable room could possibly be preferred to an afternoon with my mother and this monster of a boy! But, really, there’s no need to ask. Please make use of it whenever you choose.”

  By the time the front door closed, Mary was already inside the library. For a moment, she stood quite still, surveying the room where she had spent so many hours. There was her father’s desk, cleared now of his books and the muddle of papers that had always covered it. What had he been reading, whilst he sat there, inscrutable, amused by some secret joke, and unreachable to everyone but Lizzy? Mary would never understand now what this place had meant to him and how he occupied his mind within it. She walked with as much self-possession as she could muster to the bookshelves. It felt strange to search them without feeling his eyes upon her, no longer apprehensive that she would irritate him by taking too long or making too much noise. She moved amongst the shelves with a quiet, determined freedom until she finally found what she wanted. Then she sat at the table she had always used and began to turn the pages of her book.

  Chapter 37

  At first, Mary had the library entirely to herself. She arrived in the middle of the morning, established herself in her place, and did not leave it until required to dress for dinner. Soon, she became used to her solitude, and even began to relish it. She was therefore caught completely by surprise when one afternoon Mr. Collins burst in unannounced, carrying a large sheaf of papers with the evident intention of working there himself. He had thrown his bundle onto the desk and had sat down heavily in her father’s old chair before he noticed Mary at the far end of the room.

  “My dear Miss Bennet! I did not know you were here! I cannot apologise enough for my unmannerly intrusion. I will withdraw immediately.”

  Mary stood up, embarrassed.

  “No, sir, it is I who am at fault. This is your room and I am a sad trespasser in it. Mrs. Collins gave me to understand it would not be required by you for some time. I should never have settled myself here if I had known you had business to attend to.”

  More mutual apologies were offered and declined; and eventually it was decided that Mary should remain where she was, and that her presence should not in the least bother Mr. Collins or incommode him in any way, and that he would hold himself in readiness to depart at the least hint from her that she wished him gone. As Mary had no desire to expel him from his own study, soon no more was heard but the scratching of his pen and the turning of her pages, until Mr. Collins excused himself and bid her a polite farewell.

  When Mary herself eventually gathered up her books and left to go and dress, she met Charlotte in the hall.

  “I am so sorry to hear your studies were broken in upon by Mr. Collins earlier today. I know he is very sorry to have disturbed you. Shall I ask him to work elsewhere? He could use the little parlour, no-one goes there in the afternoons.”

  “Please do not do so on my behalf, it is his library, after all. But perhaps if my presence does not annoy him, I could continue to study at the far end of the room? I have all my books laid out and am comfortably established there. I promise I will do nothing to irritate him.”

  “I doubt very much whether any irritation or annoyance would come from you,” replied Charlotte briskly. “I’m sure that scheme will work very well. I shall suggest to Mr. Collins that you become joint occupants of the library, each with your own well-defined and separate territories. It is a plan I find answers admirably in many circumstances, so I see no reason why it should not do so in this case.”

  Upstairs in her room, as Mrs. Hill did her hair, Mary’s thoughts wandered back to Charlotte’s words. The calming rhythm of the brush and the companionable silence that surrounded them encouraged her to ask a question directly which she might otherwise have hesitated to broach at all.

  “Mrs. Hill, do you think that Mr. and Mrs. Collins are well matched?”

  Still brushing, Mrs. Hill considered.

  “As well as most, I’d say. They don’t argue and there’s never any trouble between them.”

  “Yes, but do they like each other? Do they enjoy each other’s company?”

  “I can tell you’ve never been married, Miss Mary. They’ve been together for a few years. You can’t expect them to behave like young lovers.”

  That was not what Mary had seen at Pemberley. Lizzy and Mr. Darcy’s wedding had taken place not long a
fter that of Mr. and Mrs. Collins, but time had done nothing to dampen the strength of the affection they felt for each other. Even Mary, with no experience of the workings of the heart, could not fail to recognise the pleasure they took in each other’s company. No-one’s presence delighted her husband more than Lizzy’s; and her face lit up with happiness every time he entered the room. But things were very different at Longbourn. Here, Mary had seen no loving glances exchanged, no cheerful contentment, no desire to spend as much time as possible with each other. On the contrary; it struck Mary that whilst the Darcys were rarely apart, Mr. and Mrs. Collins were hardly ever together. Of course, it could not be denied that Charlotte had much to occupy her. There was her boy to look after and her household to manage, with far less assistance than Lizzy could call upon. And once those duties were fulfilled, the improvements to the house absorbed what little leisure remained to her. It seemed there was always something that demanded Charlotte’s attention, calling her away from her husband, preventing her from accompanying him on outings or sharing any small pleasures with him.

  Then there was the little arbour, which took up so many of Mr. Collins’s spare hours. Mary had begun to wonder whether Charlotte had requested its construction with the sole intention of its absorbing her husband’s energies, and putting as much distance as possible between himself and her. This was an ungenerous thought, and Mary sought to repress it. But the more she saw how their lives were ordered, the harder it was to ignore the possibility that Charlotte had deliberately arranged her time so that she spent as little of it as possible in the company of her husband.

  In the mirror, Mary watched as Mrs. Hill secured her neat bun in place.

  “They seem to be apart for much of the day.”

  “Well, there are many different ways to make a marriage work. And if that’s the one they’ve chosen, it’s not up to any of us to ask why.”