The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  Mary knew this was not the moment to confess that the prospect of a London dinner party filled her with apprehension, but nonetheless she hesitated.

  “Come, Mary, do me this favour. You might even enjoy yourself.”

  Mrs. Gardiner would never have hinted that she thought her niece was obliged to accept; but Mary had no doubt that she was. When she considered all the kindnesses, great and small, which had been showered upon her since her arrival at Gracechurch Street, she knew she must welcome the invitation with the simple graciousness with which it had been made.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “I should be very glad to join you. And I will try my very best not to disappoint you.”

  “I know that will not happen,” said her aunt, reaching for the bell and ringing for tea. After it had been brought in, she returned to the task at hand.

  “You misunderstood my meaning earlier, but you were right in perceiving I had something of importance to ask you.”

  Mary replaced her cup in its saucer and put it carefully on the table. She had no idea what might be coming.

  “If you are to become a social being,” announced Mrs. Gardiner, “we must dress you properly for the part. We must buy you some new clothes.”

  “New clothes?” asked Mary. “I don’t think I understand.”

  Her aunt put down her own cup and surveyed Mary with the wary patience of one who does not expect to carry her point without a great deal of effort.

  “You are a sensible girl, so I will be candid with you. What you wear now might be suitable for quiet days in the country but will not do for evenings in town. We must smarten you up a little, my dear.”

  Mary flushed. It appeared that even in Gracechurch Street, she was never to escape the vexed and humiliating subject of her appearance. Mrs. Gardiner reached across the table, holding out her hand to reassure her.

  “I know this is not an easy subject to discuss, but let me tell you how I consider such things. I see plainly enough that you don’t like to make a fuss about dress—that you dislike having attention drawn to you. But there are times when the best way to ensure you are not remarkable is to conform to the expectations of those around you. You are a rational being. You must see that if we are to go into society, it makes sense to obey at least some of its rules.”

  “Yes,” said Mary. “I made such an argument to myself once, a while ago.”

  “Then why, may I ask, did you abandon such excellent reasoning?”

  “I lost the heart for it. I was persuaded to buy a new dress, and the first time I wore it, I behaved very badly to someone who deserved better. I decided I did not deserve to wear nice clothes if I could not trust myself to act properly in them.”

  This was not the reply Mrs. Gardiner had expected; and she was so surprised that she almost laughed.

  “Lord, Mary, if that rule were to be applied universally, not a woman in London would be decently dressed!”

  But Mary did not return her amused smile; and Mrs. Gardiner, perceiving her obvious unhappiness, understood this was a hurt that ran very deep.

  “I’m sorry. I did not mean to make light of whatever it was that happened. But I beg you to consider whether your response to it was justified. Because you were unhappy once when wearing a pretty dress—it was pretty, I hope?”

  “Handsome rather than pretty,” murmured Mary. “But I liked it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But come, it makes no sense to assume that every time you wear something becoming, the outcome will be the same. On the contrary, as you have obviously reflected very seriously upon your actions, it seems most unlikely you will repeat them.”

  Mary clasped her hands round her knees, considering. It was hard to dispute her aunt’s logic. She could not deny that when spoken aloud, her reasoning did not sound very sensible. There was a knock on the door as the maid arrived to clear away the tea things; but Mrs. Gardiner, clearly keen to carry on the conversation, shook her head and the maid slipped quietly away. Mrs. Gardiner topped up their cups with what remained in the pot.

  “It is a little stewed,” she said as she handed it to Mary. “But I prefer it strong, myself.”

  She leant forward across the little table that sat between them and addressed her in a low but steady voice.

  “I realise this is a delicate matter,” she said, “but I am determined to persevere. I know you’ve always been told a woman’s worth can be measured only by her beauty, by the way she presents herself to the world. But please believe me when I say there is a middle way between an obsession with one’s appearance and an absolute denial of its importance. I do not consider myself a vain woman, but I admit it pleases me to be smartly turned out. And I would like you to feel the same.”

  Mary surveyed her aunt, taking in the trim figure she presented as she sat on the sofa. Mrs. Gardiner was not a beauty; but, as Mary was compelled to admit, this made little difference to the favourable impression she made. Her clothes became her; they were admirably chosen to suit her person and her situation, and in them, she looked exactly as she should, smart and yet completely at her ease. It must be very satisfying, conceded Mary, to know that one presented such a pleasing face to the world. And her aunt achieved it with none of the fuss or effort with which it had been pursued at Longbourn. Staring down at her own familiar cotton dress, she began to feel impatient. Her resolution to stay hidden behind such dull and unremarkable garments began to waver. Perhaps Mrs. Gardiner was right. Perhaps the time had come to discard them and begin again.

  “I am not suggesting anything elaborate,” Mrs. Gardiner went on. “We could begin with three or four day dresses and two for evenings. A new coat, perhaps, and certainly several hats. A straw bonnet or two. Some silk stockings rather than cotton. And we might also visit Mr. Dolland and find you a more pleasing pair of glasses.”

  At a stroke, the fragile image that had begun to take shape in Mary’s mind of herself transformed by a few choice garments was shattered. As Mrs. Gardiner listed everything she would need to enter City life with confidence, Mary knew it could not happen. Even if she convinced herself she was worthy of buying new things, even if she accepted she was not condemned forever to hide herself beneath clothes that neither flattered nor pleased her—even then she could not do as her aunt wished. She could not possibly afford it.

  “I understand what you say,” Mary began, choosing her words with care. “And I admit my misgivings must look foolish when exposed to the scrutiny of common sense.”

  “I am glad to catch a glimpse of the old, rational Mary at last,” said Mrs.Gardiner. “I confess I had begun to wonder where she had gone.”

  “But even if I am persuaded by what you say,” Mary continued, “I’m afraid it won’t make any difference. I have no money, aunt, with which to pay for new things.”

  “But I do,” declared Mrs. Gardiner. “And I should be delighted to buy them for you. It would be my pleasure!”

  Mary shook her head.

  “I cannot think of that. I am already indebted to you in so many ways and cannot bear to add to my obligations.”

  “I am not sure there is such a thing as obligation between those who truly care for each other.”

  “You are very kind. But I cannot accept.”

  Mrs. Gardiner stood up and smoothed down her dress.

  “I thought you might say that; and whilst I don’t agree it is necessary, I understand your reluctance. But there is another who would like to help you, whose assistance I feel you might accept with no such embarrassment.”

  Mary was amazed. She begged her aunt to tell her who this person was and how they knew of her circumstances. But Mrs. Gardiner brushed away all her enquiries and instead calmly rang the bell for the servant.

  “We have sat here long enough. Sarah can come in now and clear the trays.”

  She held out her hand to Mary in invitation.

  “I know you have been out already, but I feel the need for some air. Have you yet discovered the pretty garden at Finsbury Ci
rcus? No? Then that is where we’ll go. We can speak there quite freely.”

  Chapter 50

  As Mary and Mrs. Gardiner stepped out of the front door, Mary had a thousand questions; but her aunt was adamant she would not answer them until they reached the park. With some effort on Mary’s part, they spoke of other things as they walked up Gracechurch Street, and into the maze of streets beyond; and it was only when they were seated on a small bench in an enclosed green space beneath some very fine trees that Mrs. Gardiner was ready to explain.

  “I must tell you that I have been in correspondence with Lizzy since you first arrived to stay with us.”

  Mary kicked at the gravel of the path with the toe of her boot.

  “About me?”

  “Yes. She was concerned when she heard you’d left Longbourn so suddenly. It was not what you had planned. She thought perhaps something had happened there to upset you.”

  Mrs. Gardiner paused expectantly, but Mary stared fixedly at two pigeons contending for a crust of stale bread. She could not bear to discuss with anyone, even her aunt, what had driven her to leave her old home.

  “Anyway,” went on Mrs. Gardiner, seeing that Mary was not to be drawn out, “she wanted to know how you did, and I was happy to tell her I thought you were settling down very well.”

  “That was kind of her.”

  “Indeed. But her letters were so frequent that I began to wonder whether there was something more to them than merely solicitude. It struck me there was perhaps the faintest hint of guilt about them. As if she thought she had done you some wrong and wished to be assured you were not suffering for it.”

  Mary leapt up from the bench, alarming the pigeons. They flew off in a flutter of wings, leaving the crust on the ground.

  “These are not matters I find easy to discuss.”

  “I have no wish to pry,” replied Mrs. Gardiner mildly. “Come, do sit down. I shan’t press you to say more.”

  Mary seemed not to have heard her. Preoccupied, she walked over to the patch of ground the pigeons had abandoned.

  “It is true Lizzy once caused me a great deal of pain. It was some time ago, before our father died. It affected me very deeply, but I did not imagine she had thought much of it since.”

  “I think we can safely say that she does think of it,” replied Mrs. Gardiner. “Indeed, it explains a great deal.”

  Again, she indicated the empty place beside her; and this time Mary sat down.

  “Lizzy often asked me if there was anything she could do to make your situation with us any easier. When she posed the question for the third time I told her the truth—that you were in need of outfits suitable for London, and that I suspected you would not accept them from our hands. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear she has generously offered to pay for them herself.”

  Mary again fixed her eyes on the ground.

  “I cannot take her money.”

  “Then let me attempt to protect you from your own good intentions,” urged Mrs. Gardiner softly. “Lizzy is rich enough not to notice ten times the amount she intends to give you. And it would please her very much to think she had been the means of making you happy.”

  “So I am to be mortified in order to make Lizzy feel better?” cried Mary, angry now.

  “As I do not know what occurred between you, it is difficult for me to say. But unless she has done you some unforgiveable wrong, I cannot agree it is shameful to accept a gift from a sister who, for whatever reason, wishes to make you happy.”

  Mrs. Gardiner opened her bag and took out a letter.

  “She has written you a little note, which I am to give you, to make her case directly.”

  She passed the letter to Mary, who pulled out her spectacles and opened it.

  My dear Mary,

  The fact you are reading this is proof that you have done exactly as I predicted and have set your mind against my present. It is entirely to your credit that your delicacy makes it hard to accept; but I hope you will change your mind. It would please me very much if you would allow me to be generous to you. I should like to make some small amends for a moment when I know I was unkind. I think we both know what I mean. I don’t flatter myself that this gift excuses my behaviour, but I hope you will consider it as an apology—and indulge me accordingly.

  E

  Mary held the letter in her hands, not knowing what to think. It touched her very deeply to know Lizzy was aware of the pain Mary had suffered that night at Netherfield, and acknowledged the part she had played in inflicting it. It moved her even more to discover Lizzy regretted her actions, even to the extent of seeking a kind of forgiveness from her. But for all that, she was still not sure it obliged her to accept Lizzy’s money. She looked sombre as she folded the letter and took off her spectacles. Her aunt looked at her expectantly.

  “I understand that Lizzy means well,” Mary began. “But it is a hard thing to accept charity, even from a sister. Not only because it reminds me of my own dependence, but also because of what it implies about how I am perceived. Does everyone think I look so very dowdy? Is my appearance so odd, so very much in need of improvement, that it is considered a subject for discussion throughout the whole family?”

  Her voice shook a little. She was afraid she might exasperate her aunt, but Mrs. Gardiner did not seem angry.

  “As you clearly wish to hear the truth rather than some easy platitudes, I shall answer as honestly as I can. It is pitching it a little high to say you look odd; but nothing in the way you carry yourself suggests you set much store by your own value. I am very far from suggesting a woman is to be judged solely by how she dresses. There are some among us who pay no attention at all to what they wear and do so with a cheerful nonchalance. They really do not care what they look like. But that is not the case with you. Your appearance does not suggest a blithe indifference but an acute awareness of your choices. You dress as you do because you do not believe you deserve anything better; and in doing so, you communicate that low opinion of yourself to everyone who sees you. If you were to embrace a few improvements, I believe it would signify something more than merely a desire to look a little smarter. I think it would suggest a willingness to allow yourself the self-respect you deserve, and which you have been reluctant for so long to grant yourself.”

  Mrs. Gardiner did not seem to expect a reply, and Mary did not offer one. After a while, her aunt resumed the conversation in her usual cheerful tone.

  “I think I’ve said quite enough for now. But I have one small task to perform before we leave.”

  She pulled her bag towards her once more and withdrew from it a muslin-wrapped bundle, which she undid to reveal several large pieces of stale bread. With some gusto, she threw them towards the grass, watching with pleasure as a crowd of pigeons descended from the trees and eagerly pecked away at them.

  “I always bring them something when I come,” she remarked, brushing the crumbs from her dress. “I like to think they know me. Well—shall we go home? I shan’t press you any further about the clothes. If your conscience is too tender to accept Lizzy’s gift, let us leave it alone. But please think a little about what I’ve said before you decide. I mean it kindly, you know.”

  She held out her arm, and Mary took it. They walked back to Gracechurch Street, both very thoughtful but saying little on the way.

  Chapter 51

  When they arrived back at the house, Mary went straight to her bedroom. She lay on her bed thinking until it was almost time to go down for dinner, when she roused herself and made her way to the wardrobe. Wrapped in tissue paper at the back was the gold-and-cream dress. She took it out and draped it on the back of a chair, where it shone palely in the gathering dusk. She lit two candles and placed them by the large mirror, then stood in front of it, staring at her reflection, examining her hair and her figure. She held the dress up before her, and even in the darkening room, she could see how it flattered her. Suddenly inspired, she struggled out of her faded brown printed cotton, and th
rew the gold gown over her head. She could not manage the ties at the back without help, so she left them undone. She threw back her shoulders, as she had seen Lizzy do, straightened her back, and held her head up high. She forced her features into a different expression, less abject, more assured. She could hardly believe the improvement it made—for an instant, she was a different person altogether.

  Mary sat down at the dressing table, her mind racing. She had been struck very forcibly by her aunt’s words about self-respect, especially as they resembled so closely those used by Charlotte Lucas at Longbourn. “It is my situation I dislike, not myself.” Mary knew the same could not be said of her. She had been told so often she was a failure that she had come to believe it. A woman with her disadvantages did not deserve to wear handsome clothes. Nor was she entitled to enjoy the other pleasures that made life worth living—love and affection chief amongst them. From these too she was excluded, and nothing, she had told herself, would change this or make the slightest difference to her future.

  This was how, for as long as she could remember, she had been accustomed to think; but Mrs. Gardiner’s cool reasoning had somehow robbed this familiar dark vision of much of its power. For the first time in years, Mary found herself questioning why she had so willingly resigned herself to such a miserable fate. Where was it written that her destiny was fixed? Why should she not, by her own efforts, seek to change it?

  She shivered, and knew her tremor indicated something more than the chill of the room. It was shock too—the shock of understanding that the gloomy certainties which had sustained her for so long were loosening their grip upon her. She pulled the gaping dress around her to prevent it slipping off her shoulders and put her head in her hands, trying to think. Suddenly, the line which Mr. Collins had transcribed for her burst into her mind.

  “Happiness depends on ourselves.”