“Even though I say it myself, it does look very smart.”
Mary followed her aunt’s appreciative gaze, taking in the size of the shop, the quality of the materials it sold, and its general air of prosperity. These well-appointed premises, she thought, explained the solid, polished comfort of the Gracechurch Street house, the gilt mirrors above every fireplace, the many portraits of the Gardiners that decorated its walls, capturing them singly, together, and as a happy family group, master and mistress of their small domestic empire, their children frolicking around them. This was the business that underwrote the matching china on which breakfast, tea, and dinner were served, the cutlery with their initials engraved upon it, the rich rugs on the floors, and the Chinese wallpaper in the drawing room. The unassuming fabrics laid out before Mary in rolls, lengths, and bales made possible the commodious beds, the best mattress Mary had ever slept upon, the heavy linen sheets, and the silk quilts. The unobtrusive well-being that marked every aspect of the Gardiners’ lives had its origins here. The warehouses paid for it all.
“I’ve seldom seen a finer place,” Mary finally replied. “You must be very proud.”
“I am indeed,” answered Mrs. Gardiner simply. “It has not always been easy. But for the moment, at least, I feel our efforts have been rewarded.”
“You think of yourself and Mr. Gardiner as partners in the enterprise, then?”
“Of course. We women are barred, by custom and a thousand other petty considerations, from attempting such an undertaking alone. But I flatter myself that Mr. Gardiner could not have succeeded as he has without my help. He has often told me that my judgement in matters of taste, quality, and prices has been of the utmost use to him.”
The shopman standing at the door suddenly recognised Mrs. Gardiner and made her a deep and very respectful bow. She acknowledged him with equal solemnity, then paused for a moment, as if considering her reply.
“So yes, like all the best businesses—and, I might say, the best marriages too—Mr. Gardiner and I are indeed a partnership.”
No-one, Mary reflected, could have described her own parents’ union in such a way. The recollection was painful to her; and to avoid dwelling upon it further, she asked whether they might perhaps go inside the shop and look around. Mrs. Gardiner thought not at present. They must make their way home, for the children’s lessons must be begun before midday. But she should be very glad to take Mary on another occasion.
“And of course,” she added teasingly, “when you have a house of your own to furnish, I shall be glad to show you the very best linens you can possibly require. We shall roam the warehouses together. It will be my pleasure.”
Mary could produce no answering smile; but Mrs. Gardiner seemed not to notice.
“In the meantime, however, there are plenty of beautiful things more suited to your present circumstances. There are some lovely printed cottons to be had this year. And some of the prettiest silks I’ve seen in a long time, ideal for a young girl like yourself.”
Suddenly conscious of her well-worn coat and much-washed dress, Mary gathered both around her a little more tightly.
“I’m not sure I’m suited to finery. I think I’m better with something plain and unassuming.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “But good things don’t need to be showy or gaudy, you know. Sometimes the very best stuff can seem quite plain, until one examines it closely. It is only then that one sees its true quality.”
Their eyes met. Mrs. Gardiner’s expression gave nothing away. If she had intended a meaning deeper than what was said, she gave no hint of it. “But just as you wish. Let’s not talk of it now. Shall we fight our way back home?”
She held out her arm. Mary could not remember when anyone had sought to walk with her in such a friendly manner, and hesitated. But Mrs. Gardiner did not withdraw her invitation, and Mary shyly linked her arm with her aunt’s. To begin with, it seemed strange; but Mary soon grew accustomed to it and began to feel how pleasant it was to stroll along in such easy intimacy. Her opinion of Mrs. Gardiner grew warmer with every step. She had often heard Jane and Lizzy sing her praises; and although she had spent only a morning with her, Mary knew for certain now that they had not exaggerated her virtues. Mrs. Gardiner was lively and kind, with a quick mind, and a frank curiosity about the concerns of those for whom she cared. She was inquisitive; but she was not meddlesome. She employed her intelligence to understand what others thought and felt, the better to help them if she could. She wanted those around her to be happy; entirely satisfied with her own circumstances, it pleased her to see those she loved as contented and comfortable as she was herself. By the time they arrived back at Gracechurch Street, Mary thought she had never met anyone whom it was so easy to like. There seemed no reason not to surrender herself to the full force of her aunt’s appeal; and although she was usually cautious in all matters relating to the affections, in this case she felt more confident. Mary was already certain that Mrs. Gardiner was to be trusted, and that her aunt would not let her down.
Chapter 47
Family life at Gracechurch Street was very different from what Mary had known at Longbourn. She had not been there long before it was plain that Mrs. Gardiner loved her husband and four children with a strong, steady devotion. Her feelings were fully returned, and neither she nor Mr. Gardiner saw any reason not to express them as openly as possible. At Gracechurch Street, there was affection enough for everyone. With something of a pang, Mary saw that her aunt and uncle had no favourites amongst their children, but treated them all with equal care. They rarely scolded either their two lively daughters or their two cheerful sons, preferring that they should be a little more jolly and bouncing and a little less disciplined and silent than absolute correctness required. As a consequence, there was, in the Gardiner household, a great deal of capering and frisking and jumping about, which made it rather too boisterous for very refined spirits; but for anyone in need of a little tenderness, it was a singularly welcoming haven. The longer Mary spent in its soothing surroundings, the more she understood why both Jane and Elizabeth had been so restored there.
For whilst Mrs. Gardiner cared deeply about the well-being of her nieces, she understood, that when dealing with young women, it was not always wise to demonstrate concern too plainly. It was nearly twenty years since she had left off being a young woman herself, but she had not forgotten how tiresome it was to be constantly poked and prodded with questions. She deduced that something had happened to upset Mary at Longbourn, but did not seek immediately to discover what it was. Instead, she fed her, encouraged her to sleep late in the morning, and generally enveloped her in all the unobtrusive attention of which she was capable. At first, Mary was too dazed to appreciate it, but gradually, she understood with what care she was being treated; and after she had been at Gracechurch Street about a week, she attempted to thank Mrs. Gardiner for it.
As her gratitude was all she had to offer, Mary was keen to convey it with as much feeling as possible. She composed a little speech in her head, but it was not easy to find the right moment to deliver it. Finally, one morning after breakfast, when their nurse had taken the children away to be washed and dressed, she seized her opportunity.
“I wanted to say how very grateful I am for all the kindness you have shown me,” she began. “I am all the more sensible of your generosity, for, although I invited myself into your house, you have welcomed me with the most open arms imaginable. It is often said that offering hospitality to strangers is one of the noblest virtues, but there are few who practise it with as much sincerity as you and Mr. Gardiner.”
“Well, you can hardly be accounted a stranger,” replied Mrs. Gardiner. She was somewhat distracted, occupied in gathering up her children’s books from the floor, where they had been strewn by their owners before they were carried off to be made decent.
“And I shouldn’t want you to feel too heavy a sense of obligation,” she continued, stacking the little volumes into a pile on the s
ofa. “We were pleased when you asked if you could come and are very glad to have you here. Your sisters were free to stay with us for as long as they wished, and we are happy to extend the same invitation to you.”
“I only hope there is some way in which I can repay your kindness,” Mary replied. “I know I am not as amusing as Lizzy nor as useful as Jane, but there must be something I could do to assist you.”
Abruptly, Mrs. Gardiner stopped what she was doing and looked up from her sorting.
“Mary, I do hate to hear you speak in that way. It makes me so very sad. We would not have asked you here if we did not find your presence agreeable. I hope you understand that?”
“I’m sorry,” Mary faltered. “It is only that—I did not want to presume…”
“You are the least presuming person I know,” declared her aunt, as she placed the books alongside the others on the sofa. “And please, let us hear no more disobliging criticisms of your own character. The only condition I shall apply to your remaining with us is that you try to speak more kindly of yourself. Is that a rule you think you can obey?”
Mary bit her lip. She could not imagine anything more pleasing than to remain in this welcoming house where she had begun to feel herself at home.
“I-I will certainly try.”
These few hesitant words hardly did justice to the strength of her feelings, but before she could say more, the pile of books her aunt had so carefully balanced on the sofa slid slowly but unstoppably back onto the floor. Mrs. Gardiner watched them fall with a resigned smile.
“Then you are welcome to stay as long as you wish—or for as long as you can bear it. As you can see, it is a regular Liberty Hall here, and we don’t stand on ceremony; but if you don’t mind that, I think you’ll do well enough. We shall be delighted to have you amongst us.”
Mary’s heart was too full to speak. Instead, she joined her aunt on the carpet and began to pick up her nephews’ and nieces’ books.
Chapter 48
At first, Mary found it hard to accept the truth of her good fortune. She could not quite credit that she would not be obliged to take up her pen again and write to her mother or the Bingleys, cowed and defeated, asking for permission to slink back to Derbyshire. But now she knew she was to stay with the Gardiners, she was determined to do as her aunt had requested, and no longer speak so slightingly of herself. Indeed, she would attempt to go further. She would do all she could to enter into the spirit of their household, to behave with as much good humour as the Gardiners did themselves. If she had been invited to join their family, it was only right she should not dampen their pleasures with sad looks and awkward silences. She would endeavour to make herself worthy of their generosity by entering as fully as she could into the Gracechurch Street life.
She began by offering to instruct her young nieces on the piano. Mrs. Gardiner hesitated, asking if she understood what this would involve. She was sad to say that neither of the girls showed any evidence of talent. Would Mary not rather spend the time playing for her own amusement? But Mary would not be deterred, assuring her that she really wished to help; and in the end, her aunt capitulated.
“If you are determined to sacrifice yourself, I will not stand in your way. Both Marianne and Jane should practise far more often than they do. If you could spare a few hours to keep them at their scales, I should be very glad of it.”
The following morning, and every subsequent day at eleven o’clock, Mary found herself sitting beside her young cousins at the piano, beating time for them and correcting their finger positions. At first, both she and the little girls were shy; but they were sunny, friendly creatures, and their reserve was soon forgotten. By their third lesson, they were chattering away freely, with every appearance of pleasure. Against all her expectations, Mary too found herself enjoying the lessons, especially as her pupils began to show a marked improvement in their performance. Perhaps Lady Catherine had been right and she would have made a good governess after all?
She even began to look forward to family dinners. These were very different from the ordeals she had endured at Longbourn; at Mr. Gardiner’s table, there was no teasing and no snubbing. He liked meals to be as pleasurable as everything else in life. The better she came to know him, the harder Mary found it to believe he was her mother’s brother. He was so sensible, so gentlemanly, and so affable that it was impossible to credit they were such near relations. He did not stand on his dignity and was often to be found on the carpet playing with his children, holding them in his arms and tousling their hair. They were not afraid of him, and chattered away in his presence without the slightest restraint. One night, as he shook his two noisy sons off his lap and attempted to finish his dinner, he caught Mary’s eye.
“No-one could say these children are seen and not heard.”
“All the better for them, I should say. They always look very happy.”
“I hope so. I hate to see children crushed and silenced by too much correction. Home should be a pleasant, laughing sort of a place, I always think. What do you say, George? Edward, what is your opinion?”
The boys nodded their agreement, their minds already on another game. Mary glanced up to see Mrs. Gardiner looking over the candles at her husband and sons; Mr. Gardiner caught his wife’s eye and smiled back. It was the briefest gesture, but it seemed to Mary to contain within it all the depth of their feelings for each other. It was strange, she thought, but the Gardiners’ mutual affection did not make her feel more alone, as she had at Pemberley, where the intensity of the Darcys’ passion had left her painfully conscious of her own exclusion. At Gracechurch Street, the pleasure her uncle and aunt took in each other was felt to advantage by all around them. Mary had no doubt her nephews and nieces felt it, benefitted from it. She even began to sense its effects herself.
Little by little, her frozen feelings began to thaw, and as they did so, she raised her head and began to look around, curious to discover more of what lay beyond the Gardiners’ house. At first, she contented herself with short strolls to the end of the street. But soon she craved to go further afield. The City crowds no longer intimidated her as they had once done, and she soon thought herself ready to brave longer journeys. Mrs. Gardiner would not allow this until they had trod the pavements together often enough for her to be assured that Mary had mastered enough of the neighbourhood’s complicated geography to be allowed out alone. Finally, she allowed it, but only when Mary swore to follow all her advice: “Do not stray too far away, speak to no-one, and if you feel uneasy, find a respectable woman and ask for her protection.” With these words ringing in her ears, in a short while Mary was familiar with all the most interesting streets in the vicinity. Soon it was her habit to put on her bonnet and walk from Gracechurch Street to Cheapside and beyond, with no other object but to enjoy the atmosphere of each new place she discovered. She would never have believed she would come to take so much pleasure from losing herself in the City’s crowds. There was a freedom, she concluded, in being one amongst so many, in knowing you might never again see the people who passed you so closely with such uninterested eyes. You could be anyone—no-one knew who your family was, or where you came from. It could not be more different from Meryton, where your name and history were common knowledge, and your past would always define you. Here, no-one cared. It was a thought that gave her a little twinge of fear, but also of excitement.
Chapter 49
One spring afternoon, when she returned from a walk, Mrs. Gardiner called Mary to join her in the drawing room. When Mary entered, she found her aunt sitting on the sofa with a preoccupied air. This was unusual, for she was rarely disconcerted; and as Mary sat down opposite her, she began to fear Mrs. Gardiner must have some difficult message to deliver. They chatted for a while about what Mary had seen on her outing; but eventually Mrs. Gardiner began upon what was clearly the point of their conversation.
“Since you joined us, we have lived very quietly, but that is about to change. We always become more sociabl
e as spring approaches. It’s our custom to give some little dinners and other small entertainments, simple gatherings for friends and relations whose company we enjoy.”
Mary’s heart began to beat faster. She was certain now that something difficult was about to be said. Perhaps if she could imagine what it might be, if she were to speak first, she could save her aunt the embarrassment of having to raise the delicate subject herself.
“Nothing extravagant, all very domestic,” continued Mrs. Gardiner. “But there will be rather more social life in the house than you’ve been used to.”
“I hope you will not feel any obligation to include me,” said Mary quickly. “I will be happy to stay upstairs with the children. I have my books—I will be quite content, I assure you.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her with genuine surprise.
“Can you really suppose,” she asked, “that we would arrange a pleasant dinner for family and friends, and send you off into exile upstairs?”
“I would understand if you did,” replied Mary. “I do not sparkle much at dinners, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps that says more about the dinners you have so far attended than it does about you,” declared Mrs. Gardiner. “And anyway, in our house, no-one is obliged to sparkle. Which, I find, makes it far more likely that they might. So, you will join us, I hope?”
The Other Bennet Sister Page 26