The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice

by Jennifer Paynter

  Sir William had engaged the services of a dancing master and a fiddler, but on our arrival these two were nowhere to be seen. Lady Lucas turned hopefully to me: “Perhaps in the meantime Mary might play for us?”

  I was only too happy to sit down at the instrument—I was afraid of learning to dance, truth to tell, afraid of appearing awkward and clumsy—and while the set was being formed, I played and replayed my own little tune.

  I was playing the opening bars of “The Fine Companion” when Peter Bushell walked into the room.

  17.

  When one has been constantly thinking about a person, their sudden appearance in the flesh (the god incarnate, as it were) can come as a disappointment. Peter struck me as darker and untidier and altogether more gypsy-looking than I remembered, but then the knowledge that he was actually in the same room as myself was accompanied by such heart-beating, such trembling, as made it impossible for me to go on playing.

  I hardly dared look at him but I was aware of his taking up his station beside the window. The strains of a fiddle then came to me and I realized he had taken up the tune precisely where I left off. It took me several moments to compose myself sufficiently to accompany him.

  No sooner had the dance ended than Sir William was standing over me: “Now that the fiddler is come, my dear Mary, there can be no occasion for you to keep playing. I promised your good mother that I would not suffer you to sit by. I promised her that I would make sure you joined in the dancing.”

  And when I did not immediately comply—for I was still so flurried I doubted my ability to stand, let alone dance—he said: “Maria, you see, is now to partner Mr. Howard.” (Mr. Howard being the dancing master) “So you are needed to make up the numbers, my dear.”

  Upon Sir William’s moving away I saw that Peter was talking—or rather, listening—to Helen Long while Lydia and Kitty were in the little group surrounding the dancing master. (I had just sense enough to feel relieved they were not sniggering about Peter.)

  I managed then to pull myself together and make my way over to Maria Lucas, who was standing a little apart.

  “Oh! Mary.” She clutched my arm. “I am mortified—they are all so much better than me, and I begged Papa to let me have private lessons.” She broke off to look at me. “Why, what is the matter? You are all of a tremble.”

  I assured her I was perfectly all right, merely a little nervous on account of never having danced before.

  “Never ever?” She took my hand. “Well, you and I must dance this next one together then, for Mr. Howard does not partner me until the second set.”

  Mr. Howard came forward then—a prancing little man with tufted eyebrows and an air of self-consequence. “The beginners must now give place to the more experienced dancers,” said he with a condescending smile at Maria and myself. “The best couples must move to the top—so, so—” (taking Helen Long for his partner and placing Lydia and Kitty next) “And the rest of you must watch while you work your way up from the bottom—so that you learn the figure before leading off.”

  Mr. Howard then snapped his fingers at Peter, ordering him without so much as a “please” or “thank-you” to play “Mayden Lane,” before parading with Helen down the length of the room.

  For the first time I dared look directly at Peter. In the act of lifting his fiddle to his shoulder, his eyes met mine and he winked at me. And that wink—so mischievous and good-humored—served to banish some of my confusion. From that moment, I was at least able to look at him.

  As the figure chosen by Mr. Howard employed only the leading couple, there was at first very little for Maria and me to do. But upon his taking Maria for his partner, Helen Long seized my hands, saying: “Come, chérie, you and I will now show the others what fine dancing is.”

  And with Helen for a partner, I got on surprisingly well. She praised my sense of rhythm and while I did not quite believe her (being far too conscious of Peter in the background), yet it was very pleasing flattery and certainly made the whole thing less of an ordeal. At the conclusion of the dance she whispered: “I have spoken to Lydia, chérie, and you need have no fear that she will betray you.”

  She then called out to Peter: “This is Mary’s first dancing lesson, you know. Do not you think she acquitted herself well?”

  It was impossible for Helen to speak to any man without flirting, but Peter did not seem to notice. He was looking at me and smiling. “She did indeed.”

  I felt my confusion returning then, but his expression—his whole manner—seemed so easy and yet free from familiarity that I was reassured. “I confess I enjoyed it much more than I thought I should.”

  “La!” Helen was looking up at Peter coquettishly, but again he seemed not to notice. He asked whether we would be coming to next week’s assembly.

  “We might consider it,” said Helen. “If you are playing.”

  This was too obvious a gambit for him to ignore, yet his assenting smile was perfunctory and it occurred to me that he might well be used to females making overtures at the assemblies—forward young ladies who, if gentlemen were scarce, flirted with the musicians. He turned to me then and asked whether I wanted still to learn to play the fiddle, adding: “I give lessons, y’know.”

  But before I could reply, Sir William interrupted, directing Helen and me to the dining room where refreshments were laid out. “As for you, my good man,” said he to Peter, “if you would like to make your way to the kitchen, the housekeeper will attend to your needs.”

  This from Sir William, who was civil to all the world! The realization that such slights were Peter’s daily portion filled me with indignation, and I looked to see how he bore it, but he was packing away his fiddle imperturbably. And without giving myself time to consider—while my courage was still high—I went to him and held out my hand, saying: “Thank you for your music this morning, Mr. Bushell. And I should very much like to learn how to play the fiddle, and for you to give me lessons—if my father permits it.”

  He took my hand and looked down at me in a curious way—seeking (it seemed to me) to weigh me up while he talked mere commonplace—about being “happy” &c. He was smiling but there was at the same time an odd holding-back. I sensed that I had in some way surprised him.

  When I went into the dining room, Lydia pounced on me. “Oh, Mary! Kitty and me are both agreed—your fiddler is a most attractive fellow—excellent teeth—and if he were but dressed in fashionable clothes—”

  “—If he were wearing regimentals—” (This from Kitty.)

  “—Oh Lord! If he were wearing regimentals I would flirt with him myself.”

  Helen Long now joined us, whispering: “For shame, you two! Cannot you see you are embarrassing poor Mary?” (putting her arm about me) “But I have to agree, chérie, he is most attractive.”

  Whereupon the three of them began to giggle. And I found myself denying Peter for the second time: “I admire him as a musician merely.” Their sniggering increased and I threw off Helen’s arm. “Why must you turn everything into a flirtation? He is nothing to me, I tell you.”

  Helen at once begged my pardon. (“I swear I will never speak of him again.”) But as we were preparing to leave the dining room she hissed to me: “Quick! Look out the window. Can you see him?”

  I was just able to discern two men—Peter and Mr. Howard—walking across the waterlogged fields, presumably taking the shortcut to Meryton. Again, I felt indignant. Why had not Sir William let them have the use of his gig? Had they been gentlemen, he would have offered it—he would have offered them his coach, and welcome. And I bethought myself then of that problematic text from Saint Matthew (25:29): “Unto everyone that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.”

  Helen accompanied us back to Longbourn, and in the continuing absence of Jane and Elizabeth, Mama invited her to stay to dinner. I was glad of it—in Helen’s presence Lydia forbore to tease me about Peter—and the table ta
lk was almost entirely about officers and their doings. Helen gave us an account of Harriet Lamb’s wedding dress: “White satin and lace—and over it a white satin pelisse with swan’s down trimming. Très élégant, n’est-ce pas?”

  Papa objected to the description of finery as well as to Lydia and Kitty’s parroting of Helen’s French phrases: “A little less la if you please.” And then almost plaintively to my mother: “When are Lizzy and Jane coming back?”

  Mama’s reply was evasive. “As to that, my dear Mr. Bennet, I am not entirely sure. I had a note from Elizabeth this morning asking that the carriage be sent for them—”

  “Then why in heaven’s name did you not send it?”

  He lifted his hand to cut short Mama’s querulous exculpation: “Very well, very well. The horses were wanted in the farm, I suppose.”

  Directly after this exchange, I saw Helen do a very odd thing. I saw her deliberately catch my father’s eye and mouth the word la, dropping down her little pink tongue in a very saucy manner.

  At the time, my father laughed but afterwards I heard him say to Mama that Helen was a “pert minx” who would bear watching.

  “What nonsense you do talk, Mr. Bennet. Minx, indeed! She is a very pretty-behaved girl—not especially handsome, I grant you—but very good-natured and obliging. She sewed up a torn flounce on Lydia’s ball-gown.”

  To which Papa replied that women were rarely the best judges of what men found attractive and that Helen Long was “quite handsome enough for the purpose.”

  18.

  Jane and Elizabeth did not return to Longbourn until after morning service on Sunday. They borrowed Mr. Bingley’s carriage to make the journey, and consequently we were not expecting them. I was in my room working on my song when they burst in upon me.

  They seemed delighted to be home—Elizabeth especially—and greeted me most affectionately, asking what I had been doing in their absence &c. (Not wanting to tell them about my song, I was obliged to practice a little deception; I allowed them to think that I had been studying thorough-bass.) But their four-day absence seemed to have changed them, almost as if a spell had been placed upon them—or rather two separate spells, for they were exhibiting quite different symptoms. Jane looked to be living in some sweetly satisfying world of her own whereas Elizabeth was unaccountably restless, roaming about my room and looking at the books on my shelves.

  “Why, Mary! You still have Mr. Coates’s novel. You still have Paola. One of these days I must ask you to lend it to me.”

  She then picked up my latest Commonplace Book and asked whether there were any new extracts to admire.

  Her manner was playful—the sort of manner I mistrusted. I had been pleased to see her, but now I wanted her to go away. To humor her, however, I read out an extract from the first epistle of Pope’s Moral Essays. But on Jane’s beginning to cough, Elizabeth hastily bundled her downstairs.

  Mama was not pleased to see her elder daughters. She had calculated on their staying at Netherfield until the following Tuesday, which would have nicely rounded off Jane’s week. Papa, however, greeted them with delight, calling for the fatted calf to be killed: “Do I have that right, Mary? Is that the correct text?”

  Such was his flow of spirits that I wondered whether he had something up his sleeve—some fresh sport for Elizabeth’s diversion—a new neighbor for them both to laugh at perhaps. And as it happened, he did have a surprise in store. The following morning he announced that “a gentleman and a stranger” was to dine with us, and only after Mama’s anticipation reached fever pitch (so sure was she that it must be Mr. Bingley) did he reveal the guest’s identity. It was none other than our cousin, Mr. William Collins—he who was to inherit Longbourn.

  He then read aloud Mr. Collins’s letter, and although he read without comment or expression, there were one or two looks at Elizabeth that suggested how much he relished the contents—evidence that the writer was neither clever nor well educated.

  Elizabeth enjoyed the letter immensely. The two of them soon had their heads together over it, and their lip-curling was something to behold. Poor Mr. Collins’s apology for inheriting the estate was discounted, and his grateful deference towards his patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh mocked—as was his motive in wanting to heal the breach between our two families.

  “He must be an oddity, I think,” said Elizabeth. “I cannot make him out—there is something very pompous in his style—and what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?—We cannot suppose he would help it if he could. Can he be a sensible man, sir?”

  My father’s reply was entirely predictable: “No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter that promises well. I am impatient to see him.”

  I then spoke up: “In point of composition, his letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed.”

  My father’s dismissive glance was the only response I received. I knew of course that my own idea had not been well expressed: I ought rather to have praised the gesture of the olive-branch, surely a difficult one for a young man to make in the circumstances. But I could not speak again. My father’s contempt was having its usual effect upon me.

  Mr. Collins in the flesh did not excite my sympathy, however. He had not been at Longbourn half an hour before the house seemed full of him: his sonorous voice and heavy tread, not to mention the smell of camphor that clung to his person (his patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh having advised him to store his clothes in camphor to keep off the moth).

  And I could not respect his values. As a clergyman, he seemed to be too taken up with the material world, displaying an unbecoming reverence for costly possessions. He boasted of the extent of Lady Catherine’s estate, Rosings Park, and the grandeur of her house, with its numerous windows and marble chimney-pieces; he also boasted about his own house—his “humble abode”—and all the improvements he had made to it.

  From the hints he dropped—and Mama’s gracious demeanor towards him—it soon became clear that he had come to Longbourn not only to heal the breach but also to choose a wife. And although he assured Mama he had come prepared to admire all his fair cousins, it was soon clear he admired one fair cousin a great deal more than the others.

  By breakfast-time the following morning, however, he had transferred his admiration from Jane to Elizabeth. I was shocked at this apparent fickleness and said as much to Cassandra when she came in Mr. Bingley’s chaise to collect me—Miss Bingley having summoned us that morning for the final portrait sitting:

  “Last night he had eyes only for Jane, and this morning he is making up to Elizabeth—complimenting her on her wit and vivacity. What do you suppose he means by it, Cassy?”

  “Oh, I imagine your mama told him not to think of Jane—I imagine she told him that Jane was soon to be engaged and to consider one of her younger daughters.”

  “Well, Lizzy certainly will not have him—she thinks him a pompous fool.”

  “In that case perhaps” (giving me a mischievous look) “your mama might hope that you could be prevailed upon to accept him.”

  “Me!”

  Cassandra burst out laughing. “Oh, Mary! You have the most transparent little face.”

  “Mr. Collins would never offer for me. I am not pretty enough.”

  “Nonsense. I won’t allow that. You may not have the beauty of your elder sisters, but you have a very sweet, expressive countenance and a fine delicate complexion. Your eyes, I think, are your best feature—it is a great pity that you are obliged to wear spectacles.”

  But perceiving I was embarrassed, she began to talk of the portrait and the work remaining to be done.

  19.

  Only the Hursts were present when we were shown into the Netherfield library. Mrs. Hurst, seated in the window embrasure, was leafing through the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée while her husband sat slumped in a
wing chair before the fire, fast asleep.

  At sight of us, Mrs. Hurst placed her finger to her lips. “I shall not wake Mr. Hurst. I know you will excuse him—he is a little out of spirits. He hoped for some sport this morning but my brother and Mr. Darcy had other plans.”

  Miss Bingley walked in soon afterwards; she too seemed out of spirits, and began conversing in low tones with Mrs. Hurst. Cassandra meanwhile busied herself setting out her paints, and I was about to open my book when Miss Bingley addressed me: “I trust dear Jane is now fully recovered? My brother and Mr. Darcy have ridden to Longbourn to inquire after her health.”

  I assured her that Jane was much better, adding: “But they will not find her at home, I’m afraid. My sisters have all walked into Meryton.”

  A look passed between Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst as much as to say “running after officers” so that I felt obliged to add: “Our cousin Mr. Collins is visiting us—he has never been to Longbourn before and wanted to walk out and see the town.”

  “Your cousin is a single man?”

  “Does he make a long stay with you?”

  And so I had to tell them about Mr. Collins—after which Miss Bingley’s manner became more friendly. “My brother charged me to keep you both here until he returns.”

  Thereafter, the sitting proceeded pleasantly enough—chat alternating with companionable silences (punctuated by Mr. Hurst’s snores) and with only one disagreement between the sisters when Miss Bingley opined that Mr. Hurst slept too much. (“It cannot be good for him, Louisa. He should surely be more active—a man of his age.” And upon Mrs. Hurst’s maintaining that her husband was fatigued because he had stayed up late to oblige the company: “Let him sleep in his bedchamber then. I do not see why we should have to talk in whispers on his account.”)

  Mr. Bingley, walking in shortly afterwards, likewise remarked: “Hurst still in the arms of Morpheus? What a fellow he is. You must take his likeness again, Miss Long—shame him into exerting himself.”