The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice

by Jennifer Paynter

  “Indeed, it would not—governessing is a degrading trade and Helen would never submit to an employer’s authority. No, I want her here under my eye. And once things have returned to normal—”

  She stopped and the thought occurred to me (as I’m sure it did to Cassandra) that for Helen, things might never return to normal.

  “As I see it,” said Cassandra after a pause, “there are three things to be feared. First, that someone may have seen them returning together last night—although Helen assures me that she took care to cover her face as they came into Meryton. Second, that either Wickham or Betty will talk—although here again I think it unlikely: Wickham has his own reputation to consider and Betty has always been a most loyal servant.”

  “And the third thing?” I prompted.

  “Well, she could be with child, God forbid.”

  “Oh, Cassandra!”

  But at that point, Mrs. Long came back, closely followed by Betty with the sandwiches, and it was not until Cassandra and I were upstairs in her painting room that the conversation could be resumed. Cassandra now spoke of another fear:

  “I worry that she may try to harm herself. She is so very angry—she blames Aunt for allowing her too much liberty. But then in the next breath, she blames herself. Her spirits are very unequal. Last night she was really in a most pitiable state—walking about and crying and cursing in French—Aunt eventually persuaded her to take some laudanum to help her sleep—and then this morning she insisted on sitting in the parlor with us.”

  “These things take time, Cassy. You must be patient.”

  Cassandra put up her hand: “Please! No platitudes—none of your Commonplace Book today.”

  I was hurt but tried not to show it. I bethought myself of Mrs. Knowles—how she had helped me to lead a more useful and disciplined life. I said: “If she can just keep busy—perhaps take up some new study—something musical to lift her spirits. Thorough-bass, for instance—Helen has a fine natural singing voice—she could come to Longbourn and take lessons with me.”

  “That reminds me. I have something to tell you about your Peter Bushell.”

  “You have?”

  “Oh, Mary!” (laughing) “Your face is the most infallible little barometer. There.” (kissing my cheek) “I am sorry I was cross, but for the past two nights I have hardly slept. But back to Bushell. Last night at the ball—after supper, when you had sung your song, you will recall that your father—”

  “Yes, yes—”

  “Yes, well shortly after you had left the room, Bushell came over and spoke to your father. I was not near enough to hear what he said, but Maria Lucas told me afterwards that he had been—” (smiling) “amazingly impertinent.”

  “Peter actually spoke to Papa?”

  “He did. According to Maria, he had the impudence to criticize Mr. Bennet for his treatment of you. I must say it gives me the most favorable idea of his character.”

  “But what did Papa say?”

  “Very little, apparently. Afterwards, Sir William Lucas urged your father to report Bushell to his employer, Sir John Stoke.”

  “Oh no! And what did Papa have to say to that?”

  “Oh, he just laughed and said Bushell was undoubtedly in the right of it. A very strange man, your father.”

  4.

  So much did Peter’s “impertinence” engross me that I failed to observe certain developments at Longbourn (of which more later) and forgot about Mrs. Knowles’s letter until the crackle of paper in my cloak pocket reminded me. I then read it a little impatiently for it seemed to be all about her poor health (her rheumatism had returned but Colonel Pitt had discouraged her from going into the warm bath and quacking herself).

  But there was also a postscript announcing her son’s betrothal—Mr. Knowles was to marry a parson’s daughter from Taunton in March—and this was followed by a quotation from Montaigne about marriage being like a cage with the birds outside desperate to get in and those inside desperate to get out. I wondered then whether she was alluding to her son’s marriage or to her own.

  I prayed for her that night, for her health and happiness, and I also prayed for Mr. Knowles, although perhaps not as fervently as I should have—or as I once would have. The prayer I offered up on Helen’s behalf was pretty perfunctory too—though I had at least remembered to consult Elizabeth about including her in our weekly singing classes. I also made a point in the days that followed of inviting Helen to accompany me to Clarke’s Library. I had my own selfish motive for visiting the library of course, but at the same time I did sincerely wish to be of use to her.

  Fortunately, we did not encounter Wickham on any of our walks. During this period he was as often as not at Longbourn, ingratiating himself with the rest of my family (my father now deemed him a “very pleasant fellow”) and telling anyone who would listen how shockingly he had been treated by Mr. Darcy.

  But I am not relating this at all methodically. Far too many things happened in the days immediately following the Netherfield ball for me to give a precise account of them all—and I have neglected to mention Mr. Collins’s second matrimonial essay. Three days after his offer to Elizabeth, he proposed to Charlotte Lucas—and was accepted.

  Like everybody else, I was amazed when the news was made known. I was also relieved—my mother would now stop bothering me, for she had begun to entertain hopes that I might be prevailed upon to accept Mr. Collins.

  I must now touch on a more painful subject: the continuing absence of Mr. Bingley. Two days after the ball, a letter came for Jane from Caroline Bingley. It was delivered when we were all in the drawing room (my sisters having just returned from Meryton with Wickham and another officer) and I was beside Jane when she opened it. I saw her countenance change as she read it. But I had thought no more about it, and when Jane later announced that the whole Netherfield party—Miss Bingley, the Hursts, and Mr. Darcy—had gone to join Mr. Bingley in London, she appeared quite calm and matter-of-fact. It was Mama who expressed dismay.

  But Jane, as I afterwards learned, had not quite told us the whole. Cassandra had also had a letter from Miss Bingley, stating that her brother would not now be returning to Hertfordshire, that they were all fixed in London for the winter, and that Cassandra was therefore to apply to the attorney Mr. Morris for payment for the portrait. Miss Bingley also furnished Cassandra with the Hursts’ London address, to which the portrait should be consigned.

  Cassandra was quite miffed by this. “It was Mr. Bingley who commissioned the portrait, not his sister. And at the ball when I spoke to him, he said nothing about spending the winter in London. But perhaps Jane knows the reason for the change of plan?”

  I shook my head. “Jane was most surprised to receive Miss Bingley’s letter, I assure you.”

  Cassandra was regarding me intently. “Was she though? You know, Mary, I begin to think this is none of his doing—I suspect it is Miss Bingley who wants to winter in London. And that being the case, we may confidently expect him back within the week. He will not want to be parted long from your sister—he’s besotted with her.”

  There was a faint acid tone to this observation but I let it pass: Cassandra tried hard not to envy Jane, but occasionally an ignoble sentiment escaped her. She was wrong in her prognostic however—Mr. Bingley did not come back within a week, and his being settled in London was soon confirmed in a second letter from Caroline Bingley. And this time I did notice that the news affected Jane. Her serenity—her air of sweet composure—seemed quite cut up. She and Elizabeth now spent a lot of time closeted in their dressing room or walking together in the shrubbery. And once after a prolonged rant from Mama on the subject of Bingley and Netherfield, I overheard Jane say to Elizabeth: “Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him.”

  Witnessing Jane’s distress, my own self-absorption was at last punctured, and I now prayed for the sister I loved best. I reminded God of her goodness a
nd asked that Bingley not keep her in suspense too long.

  I was myself in a fair amount of suspense over Peter. I had been haunting Clarke’s Library and had as yet received no message from him. And while I told myself to be patient, that Peter was not free to come and go as he pleased, yet I could not help feeling uneasy.

  Another source of unease was Wickham’s frequent presence in the house and Elizabeth’s obvious delight in his company. I tried once again to warn her against Wickham, but as I could not supply evidence of his misconduct without exposing Helen, she would not listen to me. My parents too were both partial to Wickham, and I therefore looked to Aunt Gardiner to penetrate his character when the family came for their usual Christmas visit.

  But in this too I was to be disappointed. Aunt certainly disapproved of Wickham as a prospective husband for Elizabeth, but it was his lack of fortune to which she objected, not his lack of integrity. He successfully bamboozled her by talking about Derbyshire—the particular part of Derbyshire where Aunt had spent her formative years—and of all their mutual acquaintance, including the Darcy family of whom Aunt knew only by report.

  After Christmas, the Gardiners left for London, taking Jane with them. And despite Aunt’s saying that there was no hope of Jane meeting Bingley as they lived in such a different part of London, I did not consider the gulf between Grosvenor Street and Gracechurch Street impassable. It would not prevent Jane calling on Caroline Bingley, and Mr. Bingley might thereby hear of her being in town.

  Cassandra also took this view: “Oh, he will certainly hear of it—and as soon as he sees her again, it will all be resolved.” She even added magnanimously: “And I’m sure I hope that they will be very happy.”

  With the departure of Jane and the Gardiners, the marriage of Charlotte Lucas to Mr. Collins now loomed. Lady Catherine de Bourgh did not believe in long engagements, and the wedding was accordingly fixed for the third Thursday in January. On the Wednesday, Charlotte, accompanied by Maria, paid us a farewell visit, and while my mother was expressing insincere wishes for Charlotte’s happiness, Maria plucked at my sleeve and whispered: “I thought that you should know, Mary—pray do not be angry now!—but after the Netherfield ball, Papa saw it as his duty to speak to Sir John Stoke about your fiddler friend.”

  “I assume you refer to Peter Bushell?”

  “Oh, pray do not be angry! It has been on my conscience for weeks now and I could not rest until I told you.”

  “I am not angry, Maria.” (I was of course—I was furious.)

  “You must know that Bushell was amazingly impertinent to Mr. Bennet—’tis true, Mary, he was! And Papa saw it as his duty—”

  “I take it that Peter has been dismissed from Sir John’s employ?”

  “Oh dear, no! Sir John said he was too good a keeper for him to turn off—no, he has merely forbidden him to play the fiddle in future, either at private balls or the assemblies, lest he be offending some other gentleman. Sir John thinks—he told Papa—that Bushell has grown a bit too big for his boots.”

  I had it at my tongue’s end to tell her that if anyone had grown too big for their boots it was surely her father—poking his nose into what did not concern him. But Maria, having made her confession in form, was anxious to change the subject. She confided that Charlotte on the eve of her wedding seemed amazingly calm and collected: “I am to visit her and Mr. Collins in March, and I know that she also means to invite Elizabeth.” (whispering) “But Mama fears there may be a little awkwardness, you know, on account of Mr. Collins having wished to marry Lizzy first.”

  5.

  The wedding went off without incident—the bridal couple leaving for Kent from the church door—but when we returned to Longbourn, my mother could no longer contain herself: “Well, I hope you’re satisfied, Miss Lizzy. I hope you’re happy with this day’s work—making paupers of us all.”

  There was more—much more—there being no-one to check her, no Jane to intercede and my father having shut himself away in his library. Elizabeth sat silent while the storm raged on: “And so now Jane has lost Mr. Bingley—no help from that quarter. Not that I blame her—she would have got him if she could—she knows where her duty lies.”

  In the end, it was the sound of a carriage that diverted her. Kitty—always first to the window at the prospect of a visitor—exclaimed: “’Tis the most elegant curricle—far smarter than William Goulding’s—and there is a young man driving it—I have not the least idea who he may be.”

  Lydia then joined her sister and the two of them stayed staring out until Kitty suddenly said: “I know who it is!—’tis that boy who used to live at Netherfield—the one who played the pianoforte.”

  “Netherfield!” Mama was alive again.

  “I’m sure ’tis he. Mary, do you not recall? You used to play duets with him.”

  I went to the window then, but a little too late. George (for as it turned out, it was indeed he) had already entered the house. A few moments later Hill was ushering him into the drawing room.

  Six years on, I was surprised that Kitty should have recognized him. Certainly his distinctive dark eyes and full lips—the way he held his head—all these were as I remembered, but he was now quite a tall young man and slender, and his face had completely lost its boyish ruddiness. His manner, however, was as friendly as before and he seemed especially pleased to see me, shook my hand, and asked if I remembered Mozart’s Sonata for Two Pianos in D Major.

  The first part of the visit was taken up with establishing the Netherfield connection, and inevitably, Mr. Coates’s name came up. I could not help glancing at Elizabeth to see how she bore it but she seemed quite unembarrassed, even asking George whether his mother had accompanied him into Hertfordshire. Upon learning that he had come only with his stepfather, Mr. Purvis, she politely expressed a wish that they would both enjoy their visit, adding: “I’m afraid the neighborhood is rather thin of company at present. So many families are in London for the winter.”

  Unfortunately this provided a perfect opening for Mama to bemoan Mr. Bingley’s departure from Netherfield, and had it not been for a quick interpolation of Elizabeth’s, she would undoubtedly have given George the whole history of Jane’s abortive romance. I then inquired after Nonna, and this too led to an awkward pause before George replied that he had not seen his grandmother since leaving Hertfordshire.

  Safer subjects were then tried. I asked George how he liked living in the country again: “I remember you were used to prefer the country when we were children.”

  “And so I do still. The only thing I miss about London are the concerts.”

  After another pause, I said: “Your mother likes London, does she not?”

  “She does indeed—which is another reason for my preferring the country.”

  I had no idea how to respond to this, but fortunately Elizabeth came to the rescue, asking about the London concerts. We began then to speak of music, whereupon George disclosed (with a blush that brought the boy very much to mind) that he had written an oratorio.

  “An oratorio!” I thought of my own poor little song and blushed in turn. “What is its subject, pray?”

  “’Tis about Goliath and is called The Philistine.”

  Lydia and Kitty now begged to be excused and shortly afterwards Mama also quit the room, saying: “I shall just let Mr. Bennet know that you’re here, my dear George—I’m sure he will wish to talk to you—you were always a prime favorite of his, you know.”

  My father of course did not come, but Elizabeth stayed and a most stimulating discussion on all things musical followed. George had clearly used his time to good effect. He had been taking private lessons from a Professor Crotch in London and had composed a pianoforte sonata as well as his oratorio. “My stepfather now wants me to give a concert here in Meryton and I do not like to disappoint him. He has been very good to me—to all of us.”

  “A public concert, George?” I was shocked.

  “Vulgar, isn’t it?” He grinned. “But poor P
urvis is vulgar—surely you remember that?” And then seeing my embarrassment: “I was used to hold him in such contempt on that account—I hope I know better now.”

  My mother returned then to issue an invitation for George and Mr. Purvis to dine at Longbourn the following day: “Just a quiet little family dinner, you understand, but I can promise you two courses—and afterwards you and Mary must play for us. I declare it will be quite like old times.”

  I could see at once what she was about, and could only hope George did not. He accepted the invitation with apparent pleasure but left soon afterwards, and when Mama went with him to the door I said to Elizabeth: “It is very pleasant to see George again after all this time but I do wish Mama would not misconstrue things.”

  Elizabeth gave a small sigh. “You are not alone in that wish, my dear Mary.”

  “It is so very embarrassing.”

  “Yes.” The impropriety of criticizing our mother may have struck her then, for she suddenly proposed a walk: “I have some books to change at Clarke’s—should you care to come with me? Can you spare the time?”

  I agreed to it at once of course, delighted at the excuse to visit the library, and flattered that she should ask me until I recollected that there was now no Jane to bear her company.

  6.

  Elizabeth was in an unusually expansive mood as we walked, holding forth about George: “He is an example to us all. I am ashamed of my own idleness and from now on mean to practice at least an hour a day—Mary, you are my witness—an hour a day at the very least.”

  I did not know quite what to make of this. She already practiced an hour a day and applied herself to her music most conscientiously. However, she did not like people to know how hard she worked, either at her music or her Italian, and would turn away compliments with self-deprecating humor: She did not “take the trouble” to practice as much as she should; she was “but a poor Italian scholar,” in fact, a poor scholar altogether, and not at all well read. More than anything, Elizabeth hated to be thought bookish.