‘Georgiana!’ snapped Lady Catherine. ‘Do you still play the pianoforte?’
For a moment Georgiana froze. Then she recovered herself. She gave the smallest glance at her brother and he reassured her with a slight nod.
‘Yes, Aunt.’
‘After dinner you shall play for me. I hope that Mrs Darcy has not encouraged you to stop your practice.’
‘No, Aunt, of course not.’
Lady Catherine harrumphed. ‘When surrounded by those who will not improve their study, the weak-minded will often give up.’
‘I continue to play, ma’am, for I do enjoy it.’
‘I suppose, Miss Bennet, that you follow the example of your sister and play ill?’
Mary felt the eyes of her sister, of her brother-in-law, and Mr Collins all upon her. She put her fork down and dabbed at her lips with her napkin, trying to hide her swelling anger and remain calm. How dare she. How dare she.
‘I follow my own example, ma’am. But no, I do not play the pianoforte.’
‘Your own example!’ Lady Catherine’s eyes bulged. Mr Collins made small ineffectual motions with his hands. Mary folded her hands on her lap to hide the trembling. ‘Pray tell me, Miss Bennet, what is your own example?’
‘I read sermons to improve my understanding, ma’am. I go to church to improve my soul. I attend upon my parents and my sisters and my friends. I do not play the pianoforte.’
Lady Catherine could not have been more surprised had Mary said she stood on her head and recited drinking songs. All she could say for several minutes was, ‘Well! Well!’
Mary pretended to eat, cutting her meat in the tiniest bites. After a moment everyone returned to their meal. With all her courage Mary looked around. Lizzy glanced at her and the sisters shared a solemn nod. Only Lizzy’s bright eyes indicated that she was hiding her laughter. Mary looked away before she betrayed herself with a laugh. In so doing, she caught Anne’s eye. Despite her righteous anger Mary flushed. Anne regarded her with the same blank expression and looked away as if Miss Bennet ceased to exist.
Understanding pierced her and she felt a great and sudden sorrow. She had been right. Anne de Bourgh was simple, and all of Lady Catherine’s bluster, all of her posturing and praise on behalf of her daughter, was to deny herself the knowledge. How the great lady’s pride must sting her when she was alone at night, alone with herself and her terrible knowledge. There was no sermon that could comfort her, no words that Mr Collins could say that could make this all right.
The old Mary might have intoned to herself self-righteously, pride goeth before a fall. The new Mary simply thought, ‘Who can have compassion on the ignorant, and on them that are out of the way; for that he himself also is compassed with infirmity.’
Young people, we know, are often corrupted by bad books; and have we not likewise known them improved by good ones?
Fordyce’s Sermons for Young Women
The small party of the Darcys and Mary spent the rest of the fortnight with Mr and Mrs Collins and Lady Catherine. The days were filled with simple diversions and those small happinesses that comfort old friends as they visited Charlotte and Mr Collins or ventured into the small village. At night, Mary was thankful that she was staying at the parsonage, for dinners at Rosings were excruciating. They ate at Rosings almost every evening, but on those occasions when they dined at the parsonage, Lady Catherine and Anne never joined them. Even Mr Collins was a breath of fresh air compared to the household at Rosings.
It was not so bad staying with the Collinses. Mary, Lizzy and Georgiana spent time alone with Charlotte and her baby while Mr Darcy and Mr Collins were thrown together by virtue of being men. Mary felt that the women had the better part of the deal. The ladies cooed over small Robert, dandled him, made much of his simple smiles. Mary even got used to carrying him, and his sleepy weight felt right in her arms.
One long afternoon the ladies were all gathered in Charlotte’s parlour, the baby rocking in his cradle and the ladies with their books and embroidery. Mary sat with a book borrowed from Mr Collins’s small library, his old copy of Fordyce’s Sermons, for he had little else to choose from, but this time she had not done more than read the lengthy introduction. She looked up at the tableau before her. Lizzy and Charlotte sat in comfortable companionship on the sofa, their heads together in the way Mary remembered them when they both were still in Hertfordshire and were intimate friends. Georgiana plied her needle briskly, perhaps a little too briskly, for she sucked a pricked finger now and again. Mr Collins had agreeably asked Mr Darcy to fish with him, though the quiet of the sport would no doubt be broken by Mr Collins’s constant and incessant speech. If he had ever fished with the great fisherman Isaak Walton, Mary thought, that esteemed gentleman would very probably have drowned him in the first fifteen minutes of the exercise. She trusted that Mr Darcy would have more self-restraint.
There came a knock at the door and they all looked up.
Charlotte’s cook bustled to the door and they heard the low tones of their visitor. Still, they could not make out the voice, and the expressions on all the ladies’ faces were a combination of surprise and alarm. Cook filled the doorway and bobbed an awkward curtsy.
‘Miss de Bourgh,’ she said, her voice wobbling a bit, and then she stepped aside so that Miss de Bourgh could enter the room. She had come alone, without Mrs Jenkinson.
All the ladies rose at once and curtsied. Anne bowed her head.
‘Miss de Bourgh,’ Charlotte said with a gasp. ‘What an honour! Indeed, I did not expect – that is, please do sit down. Cook, bring tea, please.’
Without a word Anne sat down. There came an unhappy silence, the kind, Mary knew, that her mother was wont to fill up with silly chatter. For a powerful moment she wished her mother were there. At least her rattling could not have been anything nearly as embarrassing as sitting in silence with Anne de Bourgh. Charlotte gave Lizzy a desperate look. Lizzy gave the slightest shrug. There was little she could do – she was not the hostess. Charlotte plunged ahead.
‘How is Lady Catherine, Miss de Bourgh?’
Miss de Bourgh ignored her. Instead she fixed her eyes on Mary. Mary felt herself redden. Anne nodded at the volume of sermons in Mary’s hand.
‘It’s Fordyce’s,’ Mary said. ‘Have you read them, Miss de Bourgh?’ Even as she asked the question, she cringed with embarrassment. Surely Anne de Bourgh did not need lessons in how to be a virtuous woman.
‘I have not,’ Anne said, her voice quiet and thin. It was the first time that Mary had heard her say anything. From the looks of Charlotte and Lizzy, it might have been the first time they had heard her speak as well. Mary handed her the book but as Anne did not reach out to take it, she drew back her arm.
‘Do you like to read, Miss Bennet?’ Miss de Bourgh asked. She eyed Mary with an imperious look, quite like her mother’s.
For the second time Mary had been asked that question. She wondered whether Miss de Bourgh thought reading to be as odd a pastime as Mr Aikens had. It was becoming tiresome. When Mary replied, she was short.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I get such a headache when I read, that Mrs Jenkinson has told me I must avoid it at all costs,’ Anne said. She spoke with pride, as if such an ailment was a rare distinction.
The other ladies hastened to agree with her, that reading could bring on a headache if one read for too long or in poor light, and Anne’s expression grew more dubious.
‘But I cannot read anything,’ she said, and her words trumped their sympathy. They could read a little until they got a headache. She could not read for her headache would come on at once. Chastened, they all fell silent, until Georgiana said rather impertinently,
‘Mary can read to you! Mary, have you read Mrs Radcliffe?’
A laugh went around the room. Even Charlotte laughed, though it was quite clear that she was scandalized. She said, ‘Miss Georgiana, you cannot propose that Mary should read from The Mysteries of Udolpho!’
‘Why
not? It’s nothing bad, you know. Just a silly little book.’
‘I do not think Mr Collins would approve,’ Charlotte continued doubtfully. Mary glanced obliquely at Lizzy. She merely gazed upon her friend with equanimity. But whatever gaiety Georgiana was feeling was not dampened. She slipped a hand into her reticule and drew out the novel. She lifted it triumphantly.
‘Just the first chapter,’ she said. ‘Please, Mrs Collins. Mr Collins cannot consider it bad if Miss de Bourgh thinks it proper.’
Miss de Bourgh looked flustered but delighted to be asked to take part in the conspiracy. It was probably the first time that she had sat with women of her own age. She was usually surrounded by old women, Mary thought. She had never really been in company with other females. She knew that Lizzy and Charlotte, as married women, lent respectability to their plan. But what could it hurt, really? Fordyce would not approve, she thought, but Fordyce – goodness, what did he approve of? She thrust away her small sensation of guilt.
‘I suppose it would be a diversion,’ Charlotte said. ‘If there is anything scandalous, of course we would stop.’
‘It’s a silly little novel, as Georgiana said,’ Lizzy said, with a hint of impatience. ‘There is nothing scandalous about it, except for the extreme absurdity of the story.’
Georgiana handed the book to Mary with a little happy cry, and for the second time, Mary began at the beginning of Udolpho . I am beginning to know it by heart, she thought.
She settled in, leaning back to catch the best light from the window. In truth, she enjoyed reading aloud, and the romantic sensibilities of the novel lent itself to great emotion. She often felt she could have been a curate had she been a boy, and when she was younger she would go out into the fields outside Longbourn and orate to the beasts and the birds. Only, one of the Lucas boys had caught her and teased her and she still burned with embarrassment to think of it. Now she read precisely and with clear enunciation, losing herself in the grand words.
She looked around now and again at her audience. Charlotte and Lizzy listened gravely, as befitted their matronly status and their personal natures. Georgiana attended with bright-eyed delight. Anne sat very still, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her back slumped as usual, as if the weight was too much to bear. Her gaze was very distant, and Mary wondered whether she even listened. She read fluently, clearing her throat now and again, lost in the long story with its tale of a virtuous, accomplished heroine, everything a young woman should be in form, manner, and mind. It is easier for the beautiful to be good, she thought, because everyone expects it of them and forgives them for their lapses.
At last her voice gave up the ghost, just as young Master Robert woke up with a lusty cry. Everyone was startled and everyone laughed, including Miss de Bourgh. Mary was surprised to see how dark the room was – the sun had left the window and the shadows lengthened. The little room was almost dark without any candlelight.
‘That was fine, Miss Bennet! That was very fine! Oh, what do you think will happen next?’
That was Anne. It was the most animated response that any of them had ever seen from Miss de Bourgh. But what happened next had nothing to do with young Emily of the novel. Instead, they heard the front door open, and the men came home, the deep voice of Mr Darcy and the more excited one of Mr Collins coming down the corridor to Charlotte’s parlour. Mary closed the book with a snap.
‘My dear Charlotte,’ Mr Collins said as he pushed open the door. ‘We have had a day of fishing, I tell you. Mr Darcy is a great fisherman, my dear. Mrs Darcy, your husband knows how to fish. Why, he had us separated and fish opposite ends of the pond, just so we could divide the catch between us. I caught quite a few, though I did need help in untangling my line from the willows once or twice. But Mr Darcy assured me, it happens to us all.’
He fell silent at last, as he looked at all the women, counting them all in the dimness. When his eye lit upon Miss de Bourgh, he gasped almost with fright.
‘Why, Miss de Bourgh! I did not see you in the shadows at the end of the sofa. Charlotte, why does Miss de Bourgh not have the armchair by the fire? Miss de Bourgh, where is Mrs Jenkinson?’
Miss de Bourgh rose to her feet. She opened her mouth to speak, took a deep breath, gave an awkward curtsy and fled, brushing past Mr Collins and Mr Darcy, neither of whom had the chance to bow. Mr Darcy looked gravely astonished. Mr Collins was near to tears.
‘What were you doing?’ he cried out. ‘Oh, if Lady Catherine is to find out. Mrs Collins, what did you say to Miss Anne to put her to flight?’
‘I? I did nothing,’ Charlotte countered, dandling the baby, his long gown wet and limp down her front. ‘It was Mary! She was just reading from a novel. Miss de Bourgh enjoyed it and she was startled when you came in.’
Mr Collins stared at her. Mary knew Charlotte hadn’t meant to cast blame. Still, Mr Collins stared at her. She had to force herself to steel her nerves and show neither resentment nor contempt. Under her calm and steady gaze, Mr Collins’s bumbling nature reasserted itself. He tittered and coughed.
‘My dear cousin, I think you might be unaware of the fragile and delicate nature of the sensitive Miss de Bourgh. I cannot think that a novel, the reading of which is a pastime I do not favour for young ladies, would do her good. I know you mean well, but I fear that you may have frightened her unduly with your forward ways. And you my dear,’ he turned with grave disappointment to his wife. ‘I am sure you did not approve of this diversion, for you know that we do not keep novels in this house.’
Charlotte’s eyes flashed with anger as she dandled the baby. She did not look chastened at all. Lizzy stood up.
‘Mr Collins, really! It was a quite respectable novel by a respectable authoress. Charlotte said you would not approve, but Anne herself asked Mary to read.’
That was not quite true, but it was true enough. Mary glanced once at Georgiana, who looked as if she wished to run away from her part in the misdeed. The girl kept her head down and her hands folded as if she had taken some of Miss de Bourgh’s nature. Mary saw Mr Darcy look at his sister with a considering eye, as if he didn’t believe her sudden meekness.
Mr Collins looked most astonished.
‘Miss de Bourgh asked Mary to read a novel? Why should she do that?’
‘Perhaps it is my voice she wanted to hear,’ Mary said.
With visible effort, Mr Collins gathered himself. ‘My dear cousin. You have no idea of the damage – the turmoil you could have caused.’ He attempted a smile. ‘It might be best – you see, Lady Catherine is quite protective – perhaps, Miss Mary, you will not join us at Rosings, lest you upset Miss Anne again. You will be quite happy here on those evenings in which we are out, and perhaps, perhaps you can stay with young Robert, as he has grown to like you, I daresay.’
Mary was torn between her very natural inclination to feel slighted and her more honest response of relief. To be freed of visits to Rosings was almost worth the insult. But it was not to be.
Even as Georgiana gasped, Charlotte stood up angrily. ‘Mr Collins! What do you mean, to say that Mary cannot go with us to Rosings?’
At the same time, Lizzy took a step towards him, bright red on her cheeks. She looked wild and angry. ‘Mary did nothing untoward. Miss Anne asked her to read. How dare you imply that Mary injured her in any way!’
Confronted by two angry women, Mr Collins turned between his wife and his cousin and sought to placate them both. ‘My dear wife,’ Mr Collins said, flapping his hands. ‘My dear cousin. I meant no insult or accusation. I merely thought that Mary was not aware of how delicate Miss Anne is. After all,’ he gave a small titter again, ‘she does not flee at my sermons.’
No one said a word; no one had to.
Mary stood up and handed him the book while Georgiana made a faint noise of protest. ‘I am sorry, sir. Perhaps you should put this in a safe place so that I cannot use it again. If my crime is to be punished with exile from Rosings, be assured I will not dispute your decision.’
At Mary’s apology, Mr Collins softened. ‘You see, Mary, I feel that we all must play our roles to the best of our ability, and not endeavour to reach above them. Your passion for the written word is unseemly, if I may say so. Your father and mother have failed you as much as they failed your – well, we will not speak of her. They indulged your precocious reading when they should have turned you toward greater rewards. A woman should go to church, do good works, and not clutter her head with novels and poetry, but only concern herself with virtue and that modesty that is the best adornment of her mind and her form. Scholarship is for men, novels their province for amusement and education.’
‘To improve themselves, you mean,’ Mary said, and he beamed.
‘Yes, exactly, cousin! Exactly.’
‘A pity it does not always work,’ she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE COLLINSES AND Mary were not invited to Rosings to dinner that night or the next, an omission for which Mary, according to Mr Collins, was to blame. Mr Collins could be counted on to allude to Mary’s indiscretion at every meal, until one day, as he broached the subject, Charlotte stopped him with a sharp look. He looked abashed, muttered some thought or other about giving to his wife that honour that was due to her, and didn’t bring it up again. He didn’t speak much to Mary though. She felt his silence keenly, although with relief.
It had become abundantly clear that Mr Collins could not have been the husband for her, even if he had succumbed to her simple charms upon his first visit to Longbourn a year ago. She could not bear to be in the same room with him. His obsequiousness masked an inferior mind, made all the more proud because he had so little understanding. She flinched at the thought. How many times had she expounded in exactly the same way on a subject of which she knew little, but of which she had read something or other?
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