The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice

by Jennifer Paynter

  There followed a pause during which I was once more conscious of my fast-beating heart.

  “George leaves for London in two days’ time, does he not?” And upon my confirming it: “Then you will not mind so much when I tell you that you are no longer to visit Netherfield. Whilst ever Mr. Coates and Mrs. Falco are living there, we none of us will visit. The acquaintance is to be entirely given up. You understand me, child?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Coates has imposed on us, Mary.”

  It was one of the few completely serious exchanges I had ever had with him—but as he turned away, there was a glimmer of his old sarcasm: “I am sorry this had to happen on the night of your great triumph.”

  When he opened the door to the drawing room, I once again glimpsed Elizabeth. Only now her face was pressed against Aunt’s shoulder and she was crying, her little cap all awry and her hair tumbling down.

  14.

  I slept very little that night and the thought to which my tired mind kept returning—the regret which in the end swallowed up all else—was that I had not said good-bye to George and that I would now in all likelihood never see him again.

  I blamed Elizabeth. Had she not thrown herself at Mr. Coates, I reasoned, Mrs. Rovere would never have engaged herself to Mr. Purvis and George would not now be leaving Netherfield. I blamed Mr. Coates too of course—although not half so much as everybody else did. My childish understanding of his crime was necessarily partial and imperfect but at no time did I think of him as a hypocrite, still less a libertine, and his installing two mistresses under his roof I even now impute more to convenience—a lack of resolution and misplaced kindness—than to corrupt habits.

  Elizabeth judged him, however—almost as severely as she judged herself—and for a while her fondness for jokes entirely deserted her; a silent censoriousness made itself felt, and even when her old playfulness returned, it was not the same. Her manner might mask it, but she made far fewer allowances for human frailty.

  But once again I am running ahead of myself. Before I awoke the following morning, Elizabeth had left for London. I knew nothing of it until Lydia informed me that Aunt and the two little Gardiner girls had gone—and that Elizabeth and Jane had accompanied them.

  “Nobody told us they were going,” said she. “We heard them creeping about and Nan getting out the boxes—and then we heard the carriage.”

  “Nobody said good-bye to us,” said Kitty.

  “Did you know of it, Mary?” said Lydia, sharp-eyed.

  “No indeed, I promise you.”

  “Mama has shut herself up in her room,” said Kitty. “And Nan says that on no account are we to bother her—”

  “But I shall bother her,” said Lydia. “I mean to find out why they have all gone away.”

  She did not find out, however, for Papa, placing no dependence on his wife’s discretion, arranged for Uncle Philips to collect Kitty and Lydia that same morning. They were to go to Uncle Philips’s sister, a Mrs. Jervis, who lived in a very retired way at Kings Langley. As for myself, Papa informed me that I was to spend my mornings at Lucas Lodge. “You will take your lessons with Maria Lucas. Mr. Knowles will welcome the opportunity of a holiday.”

  I knew by his manner that it would be useless to protest. But to be deprived of Mr. Knowles at a time when I most needed his counsel, I felt to be most cruel. Papa gave me permission to write to him, however, and after Lydia and Kitty left, I spent the rest of the morning composing a letter, confiding a small part of my present suffering—I could not relate the whole without exposing Elizabeth—and asking that he point me towards such texts as might best offer solace.

  He wrote back immediately—I still have the letter—quoting Mr. William Cowper’s beautiful lines:

  “God moves in a mysterious way,

  His wonders to perform.”

  Remember there is one Friend who will never forsake you, my dear Mary. Mother joins me in praying for your happiness.

  And so began an interlude which, after the first pain of missing George subsided, was not unpleasant. In Charlotte Lucas, I found a teacher who was both intelligent and good-humored—a wise old head on young shoulders, as the saying goes, for Charlotte at the age of one and twenty was burdened with many domestic cares quite apart from her teaching load. She was constantly being called away to superintend the baking or to settle some silly argument between her younger brothers and sisters, and her father’s fatuous remarks and oft-repeated anecdotes must have also tried her patience. (This early training in tolerating fools would be put to good use when she married Mr. Collins.)

  My friendship with Maria Lucas dates from this period. I had always regarded Maria as something of a scatterbrain—she for her part probably saw me as a bore and a bluestocking—but now, sharing our lessons as we did, we were able to form a fairer estimate of each other’s abilities. And without the constraint of my elder sisters’ company (for Jane and Elizabeth were objects of great awe to Maria), I found her to be touchingly deferential towards myself and grateful for any help I could give, especially on matters musical.

  In the meantime I kept up my correspondence with Mr. Knowles, and since both Mama and Papa were dilatory in such matters I also corresponded with my sisters. My letters must have made dull reading, however. Life at Longbourn and Lucas Lodge was very quiet, and apart from a severe snow-storm in the last week of November I had little to report. (Several roof tiles directly above my attic room were dislodged, and I was obliged to move into Elizabeth’s room.)

  The one exciting piece of news—Mr. Coates’s departure from Netherfield—I was forbidden to write about, as Papa had banned any mention of “that worthless fellow and his Italian comic opera.” It was Maria Lucas who told me that he had finally gone—he had written to Sir William saying that urgent business called him to London. At the time I wondered whether he had gone to seek out Elizabeth, but on hearing that Mrs. Falco had accompanied him and that the two of them had taken a house in Half Moon Street, I concluded that Nonna Paola was once more his mistress—if indeed she had ever ceased to be.

  A second, more surprising, instance of revived passion—of a return to lukewarm conjugal felicity at least—was that of my own parents. The absence of their daughters seemed to promote a better understanding between them. When I returned after my lessons at Lucas Lodge I would often find them seated together on the drawing room sofa, my father reading a newspaper while my mother played with her bracelets. My father even condescended to share the odd piece of news with her, usually gossip about the Royal Family, in which she delighted. I once heard him inform her without the least hint of sarcasm that the Queen’s preferred luncheon was a simple dish of chicken broth—chicken broth being Mama’s favorite nerve restorative. But this too was something I could not write of to my sisters.

  Their letters to me were equally dull. Kitty and Lydia wrote very short letters at very long intervals, and although Jane and Elizabeth wrote regularly, they described their activities without mentioning their thoughts or feelings. Elizabeth’s letters were especially dull; impersonal accounts of engagements, visits to the theater or books she was presently reading—mere lists of titles for my father’s benefit.

  But Elizabeth also corresponded with Charlotte Lucas. And now once again I must confess something of which I am ashamed, for I actually copied a page of one such letter. Charlotte had accidentally dropped it when called away to settle some domestic dispute and on picking it up, I at once recognized Elizabeth’s hand. Maria was busy putting together a map of Europe, and almost before I knew what I was about, I began to read:

  A sort of madness seized me—I can describe it in no other way—I could not rest until I knew if he intended to quit the country. Even now all these weeks later I cannot think of my conduct without amazement, for I had ample time to consider what I was about during the three-mile walk to Netherfield. It is this more than anything that disgusts me—that in the grip of strong feeling, I should have lost all self-command. It was hi
s discretion which saved me, for I was utterly careless of discovery. (I have spoken of this to Jane, but such is her sisterly partiality she cannot credit the extent of my folly. My aunt Gardiner also makes light of it, declaring that she never for a moment doubted my good sense.)

  In truth though, Charlotte, the scales did not fall from my eyes until Mrs. F made her shocking disclosure—for he had already told me of his relations with Mrs. R. There followed the edifying spectacle of Mrs. F and Mrs. R screaming abuse at each other with Mrs. R having to be forcibly restrained after her mother emptied a glass of wine over her. As if this were not enough, we were then obliged to endure a further hour of purgatory for there was no escaping Mary’s Mozart. I bore up quite wonderfully until the end—

  On hearing Charlotte’s returning footsteps, I hid the page inside my book, but upon her almost immediately being called away again, I once more took it out. A second reading did not improve my feelings towards the writer. On an impulse I seized a sheet of paper and copied it out.

  At the time I felt no shame. I wished to preserve some proof of Elizabeth’s folly, a tangible reminder that behind the screen of propriety there lurked a very different creature. And now I am not sorry for what I did, for afterwards it was as if the entire episode had never happened. Papa’s ban on any reference to Mr. Coates persisted long after all my sisters had returned home, and Mama—although regularly lamenting that Netherfield continued to stand empty—spoke only of the previous inhabitants as “that dreadful foreign family with whom Mary was wondrous thick.”

  15.

  I had eagerly awaited the return of my four sisters. But no sooner had we all crowded into the Longbourn breakfast room than I saw—in the midst of the hubbub and embraces—that I was not necessary to the happiness of any of them.

  I saw that the minds of the two eldest and two youngest were now so perfectly and exclusively attuned as to make them quite closed off to me. I saw, in short, that none of them gave three straws about me—that Jane’s universal benevolence was a matter of course and counted for nothing.

  For me, it was as blinding a revelation as Saint Paul’s on the road to Damascus. I had hitherto believed that however much they might prefer each other’s company, my sisters nevertheless loved me—that I dwelt at least in the suburbs of their affections. I recall sitting before the breakfast room fire, staring at Nan Pender’s back—she was roasting chestnuts for us all—in a great terror lest one of them should speak to me before I had sufficiently composed myself. And then Lydia had cried out: “Good Lord! Only look at Mary. She has seen a ghost, I think.”

  Had I been able to go to my room that evening and collect myself, all might yet have been well, but the bad weather had delayed the roof repairs and I was obliged to share Elizabeth’s bedchamber. My feelings of exclusion were not helped by our father’s coming to the door while Elizabeth was unpacking to make her a present of a novel (Fanny Burney’s Camilla) and to tell her how much he had missed her. Elizabeth must have indicated my presence—my bed was concealed behind a folding screen—for he said with a sort of laugh: “Yes, to be sure. I had quite forgotten. Good night to you too, Mary.”

  He had come a second time too—but it was to speak to me rather than to Elizabeth. He had received a letter from Mr. Knowles, which he had only that moment thought to open. “I fear you must prepare yourself for a disappointment, Mary. Mr. Knowles writes that it will not be in his power to return to Longbourn until after Easter.”

  And upon my coming from behind the screen clad only in my nightgown: “Come, child, ’tis not the end of the world. His mother wishes to go to Bath, that is all—but perhaps you would prefer to read it for yourself.”

  So saying, he handed me the letter and left, and Elizabeth—seeing my distress—lit some work candles and bade me sit by the fire so that I might read in comfort.

  The letter stated merely that Mrs. Knowles’s rheumatism had worsened during the recent cold weather and that the doctor had advised a course of treatment in the warm baths and the continuing companionship of her son.

  Elizabeth tried to console me. “But you have been going on very well with Charlotte these last months, have you not? You have enjoyed taking your lessons with Maria?”

  “’Tis not my lessons!” I was now utterly careless of what I said. “He is the only friend I have left—the only person who really cares about me.”

  “My dear Mary—you must know that is not so.”

  And here she actually kissed me on the forehead. I stared up at her openmouthed, my tears dripping down so that I must have been a comical sight. She handed me a handkerchief, saying: “Is there time for you to pay him a visit before he goes? Should you like me to apply to Papa?”

  I thanked her, sniffing, and in a rush of gratitude, said entirely the wrong thing: “I am sure that Mr. Coates cared about you a great deal, Lizzy.”

  Her expression changed—hauteur replacing affectionate concern. “We will not speak of him, if you please. He is to be forgot.”

  She turned away to continue her unpacking. I kept my place at the fireside meanwhile, hoping she would relent towards me. Instead, she took up her candle saying she must bid Jane goodnight, and although I sat up for a further hour she did not return whilst ever I was awake.

  But in the morning there was no applying to Papa for permission to visit Mr. Knowles. While we were dressing, an express came from London—my memory of this is preternaturally clear—and Hill, the new housekeeper, came running upstairs to tell us that she doubted not it was bad news, for the master had shut himself away in his library. Jane and Elizabeth ran on ahead of me—Elizabeth taking the stairs two at a time—and when I reached the library after them, the door was shut fast.

  I knocked, and after what seemed a long time Papa bade me enter. Elizabeth and Jane were standing beside Papa’s desk and Jane was weeping unashamedly.

  Papa then told me that little Susan Gardiner was no more. She had been knocked down by a carrier’s cart outside her home in Gracechurch Street. The accident had happened the previous evening when, in defiance of the nurserymaid, Susan had run out onto the road to retrieve a ball. She had died some six hours later.

  Elizabeth then handed me Uncle Gardiner’s letter. It was brief—a dozen or so neatly written lines—with only the scrawled signature giving a clue to the perturbation of his mind. Susan had not appeared at first to be seriously injured; she had complained only of a pain in her left side. A physician was then appointed to examine her but Susan had died before he could attend her.

  I could not straight away submit to God’s judgment in all this. Susan was a most loveable, albeit willful, little girl—impossible to believe that she would never again run off with my spectacles or open the lid of my pianoforte without my leave. After breakfast—a miserable meal attended only by Kitty, Lydia, and myself—I returned to Elizabeth’s room to pray for resignation: “Let the Almighty’s will be done. God gives and God takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  Elizabeth happened upon me while I was on my knees, and instead of quitting the room she began opening and closing drawers, saying, “I beg your pardon, Mary, but could you defer your prayers for the present? Jane is to accompany Papa to London, and she is in need of black gloves and ribbons and a great many other things. Could you not try for once to make yourself useful?”

  Before I could ask how I might be useful, she went on: “You will be thirteen soon, Mary. You are old enough to offer help without being prompted. You know that our mother’s nerves prevent her—” (shutting a drawer with more than necessary force) “You must know that everything falls upon poor Jane.”

  I was shocked that she could speak so to me—as if I were an unsatisfactory maidservant. “I am afraid I have no black gloves or ribbons. But Jane is welcome to my black onyx cross—the one that Mama gave me to wear at the concert. It is in my trinket box.”

  I left the room, banging the door behind me, but there was no peace to be found anywhere in the house. Mama had been thrown
into hysterics, and those of the servants who were not soothing her with sal volatile or taking her tea and toast were busy getting up mourning clothes. Nan Pender, red-eyed from weeping, was cutting up black crepe to fasten around Papa’s hat and the laundry maid was running in and out with armfuls of clean linen.

  Kitty and Lydia meanwhile were waiting for Nan to take them to the Lucases, and I determined to go with them. But even as I put on my pelisse, I felt guilty. I knew very well I should be helping. And as it turned out I was properly punished, for on returning to Longbourn, I learnt that Mr. Knowles had called in my absence, and on entering Elizabeth’s room I saw that a book had been placed atop my bureau. There was no mistaking the red leather cover, the gold scroll about the title. It was the first volume of Paola.

  Elizabeth followed me into the room—ostensibly to collect a black fur tippet for Jane to take to London. “Oh, Mary,” said she, her color much heightened. “I found that book when I was looking for your trinket box. How did you come by it, pray?” And when I did not immediately reply: “Did he—did Mr. Coates make you a present of it?”

  “You told me yesterday that Mr. Coates was not to be spoken of. You told me he was to be forgot.”

  She gave me a furious look before snatching up the tippet: “I am sure it cannot be a proper book for you to read.”

  The strain of sharing a bedchamber now became intolerable. I was frightened to say my prayers lest Elizabeth find me on my knees, and yet I had never felt the need to commune with my Maker more urgently. I had expected her to remove to Jane’s room after Jane and Papa left for London, and when that did not happen, I offered to move myself.

  “Why, Mary,” said she in the cool, arch tone she adopted whenever anything threatened to unsettle her, “I had no idea you found my company so oppressive.”

  She then turned back to her book but I was not prepared to continue in this way. And without much thinking what I was about, I put on my cloak and boots and quit the house. Even though the light was fading, I determined to go to Lucas Lodge and pour out my troubles to Maria.