The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice

by Jennifer Paynter

  So there you have it, my dear! Can you believe it? He has proposed but Lizzy has rejected him. And he is leaving Rosings tomorrow—he and Colonel Fitzwilliam both—so there is little chance of his renewing his offer.

  The second part of the letter was dated “Monday” and written in the same violet ink:

  Oh Mary, I do so wish you were here so we could talk. Mr. Collins has lectured me about gossiping with Hannah, but I am often lonely here at Hunsford. Charlotte has her housekeeping and her hens and when she and Lizzy are talking together, they do not want a third. Anyway, I have now done something much worse than gossiping with Hannah, for Lizzy has been carrying around this great thick letter for the past three days—taking it with her everywhere, and this morning my curiosity finally got the better of me. Lizzy had shut up the letter in a book, you see, and so when she stepped out of the room I opened up the book—just to see who the letter was from, you understand, and of course it was from Mr. D. (his first name is Fitzwilliam, did you know?) Only it was not a love letter—it seemed to be all about Mr. Wickham. But I did not really read it, I promise you. Do you think it was very bad of me to look at it? I do so wish you were here so we could talk.

  20.

  I was very happy to see my elder sisters when they first came home but the old jealousies soon made themselves felt. Jane had been absent for over four months and my mother now hung about her, exulting that the Cheapside air had not injured her looks and eager for news of the London fashions. My father kept saying to Elizabeth during dinner: “I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”

  The Lucases all came to Longbourn to meet Maria and it was impossible amid their competing claims to have private speech with her, and then I had to endure Lydia’s boasting of how she and Kitty had gone to meet the coach: “Oh! Mary,” (bouncing about on her chair) “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! As we went along, Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach…”

  When she at last paused for breath, I gave her a sarcastic answer—of which I am sure she heard not one word: “Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for me. I should infinitely prefer a book.”

  The truth was that I was furious with Lydia. She had deliberately humiliated Chamberlayne—made him dress up in woman’s clothes on purpose to trick Wickham. Chamberlayne had confessed it all to me the day before: “But what was I to do, Miss Mary? Your sister is so very determined. And she had borrowed one of your aunt Philips’s gowns—pink satin it was and with a trim of pointed lace—only I did not at all want to put it on, I assure you, except your sister was pulling me about so, laughing and persuading me to take off my coat—and so one thing led to another—you know how it is.”

  I had been more shocked by Lydia’s disregard for Chamberlayne’s feelings than by her lack of propriety—the incident was typical of the sort of vulgar romping she delighted in—but I very much wished for Cassandra to confide in. I was missing both her and Helen dreadfully.

  And George was now plaguing me for Helen’s direction in Cornwall. I had begun to dread his visits and had taken to telling the servants to say I was not at home. On the morning after my sisters’ return I went outside and hid in the shrubbery for precisely that reason.

  It was there that I overheard a conversation between Jane and Elizabeth. They were walking together and Elizabeth was saying: “There is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand Wickham’s character.”

  I sat, hardly daring to breathe, before Jane replied: “Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?”

  “That it ought not to be attempted.”

  They were moving off, and I could catch no more than: “Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to make his communication public. On the contrary.”

  I was quite bewildered by this exchange. If Mr. Darcy had finally convinced Elizabeth that Wickham was a scoundrel, why should she not now speak out? Why should she not warn people what Wickham was really like? I had not been in any position to expose him—without exposing Helen—but why should she hesitate? I could not understand it.

  And even though I knew she had acquired the knowledge dishonestly, I determined to ask Maria Lucas what she could recall of Mr. Darcy’s letter. To that end, I called at Lucas Lodge after breakfast the following day. (My motive was twofold—I hoped thereby to avoid George.)

  Maria, however, could recollect very little of the letter: “I remember it began, ‘Be not alarmed, madam,’ I remember that perfectly. But I really only looked at the end of it you know, just to see who it was from. It seemed to be all about Mr. Wickham—about his misconduct.”

  “What sort of misconduct?”

  “I really cannot remember, Mary. Why do you not ask Lizzy?”

  Maria now wanted to talk only of Brighton—of the regiment’s imminent move to Brighton. “They are leaving in two weeks, did you know? Lydia and Kitty are wild to go too.”

  I perceived that just as Maria had been infected by the fever surrounding Mr. Bingley’s arrival, so now she had been led to mourn the regiment’s departure. She accompanied me back to Longbourn, there to lament with Lydia and Kitty, who themselves could only exclaim: “What is to become of us? What are we to do when they are all gone to Brighton? It will be the most miserable summer.”

  This weeping and wailing had gone on for days when an invitation came from Mrs. Forster asking Lydia—and only Lydia—to accompany herself and the Colonel to Brighton.

  Lydia was of course ecstatic and poor Kitty inconsolable. Jane and Elizabeth tried to reason with her and I reminded her to be grateful for what she had rather than what she wanted.

  “I want to go to Brighton!”

  “I meant want as in lack, Kitty.”

  “I want to go to Brighton!”

  But I am bound to say that Lydia’s leaving Longbourn was a blessing. It was as if a great weed had been uprooted, letting in light upon the rest of us, especially upon Kitty. There had been tears at first of course and Lydia’s early letters had stirred up envy—nevertheless within a couple of weeks Kitty was much more resigned and rational. Her appearance improved too—or rather, her expression, for Kitty was pretty enough, being a sort of watery version of Jane, with the same blue Gardiner eyes and regular features (only with not nearly so good a figure).

  Elizabeth was now especially kind to Kitty, anxious to include her in our music classes and taking the trouble to talk to her and walk with her into Meryton (although Meryton minus officers held few attractions for poor Kitty). Elizabeth was also kinder to me, deflecting many of our father’s shafts. Indeed, she seemed intent on appraising her whole family afresh—examining us all through new glasses, as it were. Certainly she looked to be less flattered by our father’s favoritism.

  Happily, this enlightened period lasted through May and into the beginning of June, with even Mama regaining her usual brittle good humor. However, as the weeks went by I found myself becoming increasingly restless. I had been leading a disciplined life—rising early and keeping myself occupied—but three quite separate incidents had shaken me, although later I perceived a common thread. In each case strong feeling had broken through a polite façade.

  21.

  The first of these was a proposal of marriage. Chamberlayne wrote to me a fortnight after the regiment left, offering me his hand. His letter shocked me—its passionate language; he wrote at length, quoting Burns:

  O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Who for thy sake would gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whose only fault is loving thee?

  I saw that I had been deceived by his gentle manner into thinking Chamberlayne girlish, even characterless, and now the account of his sufferings (for he had long tried to master his feelings) moved me almost to tears.

  I refused hi
m of course, but I did not confide his proposal to a single soul, and fortunately my mother had not the least suspicion of it. She believed still that George was trying to fix his interest with me.

  The second incident concerned George. One of the maidservants confessed that George had asked her to extract from the Longbourn post-bag (which bag was held in my father’s library but never locked) any letters addressed to either Cassandra or Helen. He had offered Sarah a crown for any letter she so intercepted.

  The fact that there had been no such letters (I always took them to the post myself) did not make me any less angry. When I confronted George with it, he was unrepentant. “I merely wished to sight the direction—I told Sarah as much.”

  “To bribe a servant, George! ’Tis unforgivable.”

  “You have obviously never been in love, else you would understand.”

  “How do you know I have never been in love?”

  “Why cannot you tell me where they’ve gone?”

  “I have told you! They have gone to their cousins in Cornwall—”

  “Yes, but where exactly? Why is it such a damned secret?” And for the first time pleading with me: “If you will not tell me where they have gone, cannot you at least send her my letter? I would do as much for you.” (extracting a letter from his coat pocket as he spoke) “Just hear me out, Mary. I’m not one of those fellows who make a habit of falling in love. I saw too much of that kind of thing growing up—men making fools of themselves—you know what I’m talking about. I’m not like that.”

  And perceiving he was beginning to sway me: “One letter, Mary. That is all I ask. And then I won’t bother you again, I swear.”

  I had taken the letter—at the time it seemed easier—but I did not send it.

  The third incident was more disturbing. One afternoon when our parents and elder sisters had gone to dine at the Gouldings’, Kitty asked me to hear her play an air on her new double-action harp. (Our father had bought the harp at Elizabeth’s urging to help keep Kitty’s mind off Brighton.) I did not immediately comply—I was busy with my own music—and when I later looked for her in her own apartment, I found her engrossed in a pamphlet.

  “Do you still wish me to hear you play, Kitty?”

  “Oh! I do. Yes.” She hurriedly put up the pamphlet. “Thank you.”

  And when I asked her what she was reading: “Oh! ’tis just something Wickham gave Lydia. If I were to show you, you must promise not to tell.”

  I duly promised, whereupon she handed me the pamphlet. It was a report of a recent “criminal conversation” case, complete with salacious details of the wife’s adultery. I read it in silence, and Kitty meanwhile went to Lydia’s closet and collected more pamphlets. As soon as I finished one, she handed me another. I went on reading the things and Kitty joined me before I came to my senses: “Kitty, these are really—they are quite shocking.”

  “Yes,” (without lifting her eyes from the page) “shocking.”

  “We must burn them, Kitty.”

  “Oh! yes, we must.”

  We took them down to the kitchen then and burnt them, but the memory of them was not so easily destroyed. For days I was troubled with lewd images of servants spying through keyholes on copulating couples with one adulterous wife witnessed in her dressing-gown “riding” upon her lover’s lap, and another half-naked under a dining table with her lover (who was also her footman) atop her. One couple was even seen having “criminal conversation” in a chaise: they had been followed by the wife’s groom into an alley on the outskirts of London where, such was the vigor of their love-making, the back of the chaise collapsed so that the groom was able to see inside.

  I realize now that I must have been as much stirred as repelled by the images, for I kept thinking of one couple in particular—the lady was a duchess and her lover a young farmer—who had committed adultery in a turnip field in broad daylight. But at the time I was so afraid I had been corrupted that I wrote to Cassandra for reassurance. She wrote back directly (Cassandra was an excellent correspondent) reminding me that I had grown up in the country and must surely have seen the congress of animals:

  If I understand you correctly, it is not so much the sin of adultery that disturbs you as the idea of such intercourse. But do you not remember once reading to me a passage from Miss Wollstonecraft’s Vindication?—about how children should always be told the truth about such matters? Did not you copy it into your Commonplace Book? Knowledge cannot of itself corrupt, Mary—and pray do not write to me about Adam and Eve now! I have never understood why God should have forbidden them to eat from the tree of knowledge in the first place.

  There was a postscript:

  If you are still anxious, speak to Jane. She will give you good advice and help you to feel comfortable again.

  I could not have confided in Jane, however. Since her return from London she had become far less approachable—fenced off by Elizabeth—so that I felt shy with her. There was still the same sweet smile for me of course but behind it I sensed an absence of mind, a sadness even. I could never have gone to her with my troubles.

  But we were all more or less struggling now to keep up our spirits. Of the four of us, only Elizabeth had something to look forward to: She was to tour the Lakes with the Gardiners at the end of June and was now deep in Gilpin and Wordsworth’s recently published Guide to the Lakes.

  A few days after I received Cassandra’s letter, however, Elizabeth had disappointing news: Mr. Gardiner’s business would not now permit his leaving London until July—there would not therefore be time enough for them to visit the Lakes—they would have to confine their tour to Derbyshire.

  Elizabeth read out this part of the letter at the breakfast table where sat Jane, Kitty, Maria Lucas, and myself, and Maria at once exclaimed: “Derbyshire! Mr. Darcy is from Derbyshire, is he not?”

  Elizabeth made her no answer, seemingly intent on her letter, and Maria then kicked me under the table. But I scarcely felt it, for I too had received a letter. It was from Mrs. Knowles and I had but just realized it contained an invitation to stay at Stoke Farm:

  We should be happy for you to spend a fortnight with us from the 26th of July, my dear Mary. My brother will have a little leisure then between the hay and corn harvests. But please answer this promptly, dear, and take care to address me by my former name and to direct your letter care of my brother Galbraith.

  1.

  It was not until the second week in July that Elizabeth and the Gardiners finally left on their Derbyshire tour. I set off for Stoke Farm a week later.

  My feelings on that nine-mile journey changed by the minute, but any excitement—pleasurable excitement—was soon overlaid with doubt, and the closer I came to Stoke Farm, the stronger the doubt. I had not seen Peter now for eight months—not since the Netherfield ball (I did not count the assembly in February)—and apart from the note he had left for me at Clarke’s, he had made no inquiries after me, had sent no other message. I blushed to recall the letter I had signed “Your friend, Mary”—the letter in which I had so kindly corrected his spelling mistakes. The thought of it still made me feel ill. I told myself he could not possibly care about me. I had not the slightest hope.

  The carriage was now passing through the village of Stoke but there was still half a mile to the farmhouse. I had passed by it often on the way to the Great House and knew it for a tidy, old red-brick place with a mossed-over roof and tall chimneys. I told myself that I would be content to live there very quietly for the next two weeks with only Mrs. Knowles and her brother for company. I told myself that I did not care whether I saw Peter or not. I told myself that several times.

  The house had no carriage approach. A high hornbeam hedge screened the front garden from the road, and we entered by the back way. Mrs. Knowles greeted me affectionately, declaring she had never seen me look so well: “You must have grown a whole two inches in the past eighteen months. Either that or I have shrunk—which is quite possible given all that has happened. But I hav
e made a vow not to talk of Pitt—I have nobody but myself to blame, after all.”

  She led me into the brick-floored kitchen and thence on upstairs to the room I was to occupy. I saw that she was not so straight-backed as before and had lost weight so that her gown rather hung upon her. This, and the great bunch of keys she wore about her waist, made me feel she had become something of a stranger. But she threw open the door to the bedroom with her old theatrical aplomb, saying: “Observe that the window faces east—no excuse for your ladyship to lie abed late! And there is an old dunghill cock down in the yard. I defy anybody to sleep through his crowing.”

  It was a pretty, albeit rustic room with whitewashed walls and a ceiling of exposed beams. I recognized the patchwork quilt from my old bedchamber in Bath. Mrs. Knowles showed me the spacious closet and the night-table with its cunningly hidden convenience. She then went to the window to point out the picturesque view: “But you cannot see the Great House from here, merely the beginning of the avenue leading to it, and the lodge that is now the keeper’s cottage…”

  The keeper’s cottage! I strained to see the place more clearly: It was a single-storied little stone house with casement windows and a thatched roof on which was perched a turreted look-out. I wondered if Peter could possibly live there—if anybody could live there—it looked like a fairy-tale house. And now Mrs. Knowles was describing the inhabitants: “A family by the name of Bushell. The mother is rather a poor honey, but the son and daughter are very obliging and hard-working. The son and my brother are great friends—whenever Galbraith goes rat-hunting in his barn, Peter is always happy to help.”

  I had it at my tongue’s end to tell her that I knew the Bushell family—that they had once lived in Longbourn village and that Mrs. Bushell had been my nurse—but Mrs. Knowles was now talking about the Stoke family: “Lady Stoke is a very kind neighbor—she sent me a receipt for a bread poultice for my rheumatism. But we do not mix with many families hereabouts. Galbraith is—” She lowered her voice. “Truth to tell, Mary, music is about the only way to lure my brother out—last week he went with me to the Great House to hear Miss Letty Stoke sing. She has a lovely voice, Letty—”