What could Mary say? Although she agreed with Anne, she felt sure that Lady Catherine would wish her to encourage Anne otherwise. ‘I think that an assembly is quite a good thing,’ she said. ‘It can be a diversion from other duties. We find delight in reading and study, to be sure, but a rest from work can make work all the sweeter, I find. We two are in little danger of falling prey to frivolity and dissipation.’
Anne eyed her doubtfully. ‘I do suppose that you are right,’ she said. ‘But must I dance, Miss Bennet?’
Mary had a most uncharitable thought – if Miss de Bourgh had danced with Mr Aikens, poor Anne might have to take to her bed. She pretended to adjust her bonnet ribbon as another thought struck her.
‘Can you not dance, Miss de Bourgh?’
Anne’s expression was reply enough. Mary’s heart sank. Had she more proficiency, she supposed she could teach Anne to dance, at least a simple country dance. But she was barely a dancer herself. And the assembly was less than a week away. They would need experienced help.
‘Miss de Bourgh, I have an idea. Mrs Collins is quite a good dancer. Perhaps we can enlist her help.’
CHARLOTTE WAS DELIGHTED at the idea and entered into the spirit immediately. They pushed back the furniture in the little parlour. The cook held on to Robert and watched the fun, as first Mr and Mrs Collins demonstrated the steps to a simple country dance. As the Collinses had no pianoforte, Mary clapped out the beat.
She was not so sure that Anne could see what the patterns were, as Mr Collins lost his place several times and Charlotte had to scold him, but they were all breathless and good-humoured.
‘There, you see, Miss de Bourgh?’ Charlotte said, stopping, breathless. ‘Now you and Miss Bennet must try. Mary, take the gentleman’s part.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Mary said with a droll face, and everyone laughed. She bowed to Miss de Bourgh, who, also entering into the fun, though she blushed, responded with a credible curtsy.
Charlotte began tapping her foot and Mr Collins to clap his hands, and Mary talked Anne through the dance.
They practised several times before pronouncing Miss de Bourgh a lovely dancer, quite graceful and light of foot. Mr Collins would have gone on about it overlong but for Charlotte’s interrupting him and saying they should have tea so that the ladies could rest and refresh themselves before venturing out into the cold afternoon.
Over the next several days, Anne de Bourgh expressed concern more than once about the dancing. ‘What if I forget the steps, Miss Bennet? I do have the most abominable time remembering the turns.’
Mary assured her that the rhythm of the music and the other dancers would remind her of all the steps, and that she would simply follow her partner through the patterns. Uncharitably she thought that the assembly could not come too soon for her own nerves. She was tired of leading Anne in practice and playing the gentleman.
THE DAY ARRIVED and Anne was as full of anticipation and apprehension as if she were being presented at court. Her querulousness had returned and Mary had to prevent herself from snapping at her waspishly. It was only when they retired to their rooms to dress that she had a moment to herself.
She dressed in the same gown that she had worn to the Greys so many months before. It was freshly pressed, and the blue overdress and the lacy petticoat were as simple yet as pretty as she remembered. She had no maid to help her dress her hair this time, but Mary thought she could reproduce the braid that Lizzy’s maid had done for her. With much use of hairpins and the looking-glass she was quite pleased with the results. She regarded herself in the mirror. Her face was no longer thin and pale. Her complexion was quite pink. The cluster of curls at her temple drew out her eyes and Mary smiled experimentally. Then she blushed. What had Fordyce said about the perils of the looking-glass? She would do well not to dwell on her appearance, for beauty faded soon enough. Better to cultivate that inner beauty of a soul well nourished and an intellect well nurtured. Mary turned the glass over and gathered her gloves. Anne might need her help.
Next door in Anne’s room, the maids bustled in and out with petticoats, lace, and jewellery. Mary rapped gently at the open door and let herself in. Anne was being dressed by her maid and several undermaids. Her dress was much richer than Mary’s but, to Mary’s relief, Anne was not being done up like an artificial popinjay. Lady Catherine’s good sense, for all it was self-congratulatory, at least led her well with regard to her daughter. Anne wore a pretty washed-grey silk dress that revealed a plain white underdress. The ribbon under her bosom was a darker grey, and simple earrings, though sparkling with emeralds, were her only adornment, save for the hairpins that were set here and there in her dark hair. The colour was a good choice, for Anne’s pale complexion was not yet sufficient to set off the yellows or pinks that became other women.
Anne looked up at Mary with relief.
‘Oh, you are here! Thank you, Miss Bennet! I cannot go downstairs alone. I cannot!’
Mary came over to her and took her hand, pressing it comfortingly. ‘Miss de Bourgh, you look lovely,’ she said. ‘If you would like, I will walk downstairs with you.’
Lady Catherine might not like it, for she would want all eyes on her daughter, to give her the attention due to her, but Mary felt that that might be too overwhelming for Anne. Poor Anne. She seemed to be on the verge of hysterics.
‘Oh, Miss Bennet,’ she whispered. ‘The steps have flown completely out of my head. I cannot remember any of the turns. Oh please, you must help me.’
Mary pressed her hand once more. ‘Once more, then. Shall we?’
Anne nodded, her eyes filled with abject terror, and Mary led her through the dance, humming the little air. And now, she thought, Anne needed a little confidence.
‘When you hear the music, the steps will all come back to you,’ she told her. ‘Simply listen to the music and it will guide you, I promise, Miss de Bourgh.’
Anne nodded and took a deep breath to steel her nerves. ‘Shall we go downstairs, Miss Bennet?’
Mary held out her arm and Anne took it. Together the two made their way downstairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE ASSEMBLY WAS not the grand event Mary had half-hoped and half-feared it would be. There was none of the liveliness as there had been at Lucas Lodge or at the Greys, for many of the company were of Lady Catherine’s generation rather than her daughter’s. The Collinses were there, Charlotte looking handsome in one of her old ball gowns. Mr Collins was quite staid as befitted a clergyman, telling all who would listen that he was gratified to be part of such an illustrious company.
There was that awkwardness that falls over a gathering of people who have very little to do with one another generally. Anne had retreated into her usual silence, which Mary had taken for being simply hauteur upon their first meeting, but had come to learn was caused by a strickening shyness that rendered her incapable of speech. So it was up to her. Accordingly, she thrust aside her own tendency to talk too much and show off her own learning, and tried to make such conversation as would put Anne at her ease. She did not have Jane’s sweetness nor Lizzy’s wit; she could only be Mary herself, and it would have to do. She almost wished for Lydia and Kitty, as their youth and vivacity, although forward and at times vulgar, at least would have enlivened the evening out of its dullness. That is beyond my power, Mary thought. Nor would Lady Catherine approve. But how I wish this were more lively, for Anne’s sake.
Little did she know that to many guests she was the grave young girl who behaved quite nicely and made a dull evening more bearable with her quiet and sensible conversation.
The musicians whom Lady Catherine had engaged struck up the opening bars for the first dance, and all the company looked at each other uncomfortably. Mary saw Charlotte whispering to Mr Collins and nudging him forward. He coughed into his hand, then approached Anne and bowed.
‘Miss de Bourgh,’ he said clearly. ‘Would you do me the honour of giving me this first dance?’
Anne started violent
ly and began to shake her head in terror. Mary was struck with a sense of disaster. Not Mr Collins! He would lead Anne into such difficulties, for a bad partner was no good for an inexperienced dancer. But oh, how much worse it would be if Anne didn’t dance. Mary nodded at her encouragingly.
‘Do go, Miss de Bourgh. Listen – they are playing the same dance we practised.’
Anne stood at last and followed Mr Collins to the one set that was forming. Mary crossed her fingers in her gloves. Oh please, Mr Collins, she begged silently. Please dance better than you ever have before.
An older gentleman, in his mid-thirties, stout and whiskered, came up to Mary and bowed, as if he were reporting for duty. He mumbled something by which she was made to understand that he wished to dance with her. Hoping that that was what he meant, she curtsied her assent. It would do Anne good to have Mary in the set. She and the gentleman, who muttered that his name was Mr Stevens, or something like it, took their places. Anne gave her a look of such relief. Soon Charlotte found a partner, and the music came round again to the beginning and the dancing began.
The first dance passed this way: Mary kept up polite conversation with Mr Stevens, who was very difficult to draw out, whilst keeping one eye on Anne. Anne could be seen counting turns and steps, but she rarely put a foot wrong. Mr Collins was surreptitiously guided by Charlotte, who made sure she was near him for the whole dance. On the whole, with each looking out for the other, it was as much of a success as a dreadful experience could be.
When the music ended, Mary was sure the entire company breathed a sigh of relief, each for their own reasons, even the silent Mr Stevens, and everyone applauded heartily, though it could not be sure whether that was because the dance had been pleasant or because it was over. Be thankful, Mary thought. It could have been much worse.
As no one else of the company wished to dance, when the music struck up for the next air, the dancers looked about one another but felt compelled to continue. Mary caught Charlotte’s eye. Her old friend mouthed the word help! with such an expression of merriment mixed with droll terror that Mary almost laughed out loud. Here they were, unable to stop dancing, even if they wished.
After they had danced only a few more dances, with Anne gaining proficiency with every new air, Lady Catherine came to their rescue, and the company was called into supper. The dancing helped guests unbend, so now they at least had something to talk about in conversation that was both polite and desperately stilted. That topic exhausted, Mary was almost relieved that Lady Catherine held forth in her usual manner. She expounded on almost all topics, and all that remained was for her guests to agree with her. Anne sat at the place of honour by her mother’s side, almost as silent as when they had first met, and Mary pitied her, for she could not possibly be enjoying it. Mary shared a table with Mr Stevens and others, and in between Lady Catherine’s commentary they exchanged the dullest pleasantries imaginable. When Lady Catherine signalled supper was at an end, she almost despaired of how much longer the evening had still to go.
Here the evening took a turn for the worse. The ladies went to the drawing room, the men to play billiards and smoke. While waiting for the gentlemen, the ladies decided to play at cards. Cards held no interest for Mary, however, she was placed at a table in which several of the guests considered themselves very good card-players.
‘Do you not play, Miss Bennet?’ one lady said, a vision of glittering adornment in a too-youthful gown. ‘My word, how do you keep from dying of boredom in Hertfordshire?’
Another lady at the table laughed behind her hand. ‘I imagine Miss Bennet has simpler pleasures to keep her busy. Whenever I find myself in the country, I never can be persuaded to play cards or stay indoors, but must always be about walking, and imbibing the fresh air, and looking at the darling cows and pigs.’
Mary wondered what country she could possibly be referring to but only rearranged her hand.
‘Now my dear,’ said the third lady, and she laid her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘You can be quite at ease with us. We know you must be longing to spend some time away from your duties.’
Ah, Mary thought. That was what they were about. They wanted to quiz her about her relationship with Miss de Bourgh, without asking Mary directly to gossip about her.
‘So ill and frail, poor Miss de Bourgh. She should have taken the waters at Bath or Harrogate. Yes, Bath would have cured her. But she danced so well tonight, so perhaps she is improving? Will she go to London soon? Surely Lady Catherine will take her to London, the town would be much improved by her presence.’
‘Don’t you think, Miss Bennet, that Miss de Bourgh would make a vast improvement on London?’
‘My opinion is of no matter,’ Mary said, disgusted by their gossip-mongering. They were grander than her Aunt Phillips and would no doubt have condescended to the vulgar old lady, but they were behaving in the same way themselves. Fordyce had warned against such examples of her sex, those matrons who sought only to draw a young lady into their own circle instead of guiding her appearances in society. Besides, she really didn’t like them at all. She continued, ‘But as you believe it to be so, I own it must be true.’
The ladies laughed again. ‘It must be difficult, to be the companion of Miss de Bourgh,’ one said, her eyes bright and eager. ‘Lady Catherine is so demanding.’
Mary folded her cards and simply looked upon her companions. They watched her avidly. ‘Lady Catherine,’ she began, warming to her task, ‘is, I believe, a most singular female. She is proud and condescending, to be sure, yet she is honourable and most respectable. She has decided opinions but her counsel is, in my experience, always good. I can give you many examples. First—’ She paused to see how her pronouncements were being taken. The ladies looked at her with expressions of alarm. Mary tried to keep from smiling. She could keep this up for ever. After all, she had practice at it. She took a breath, when one of the ladies interrupted, asking one of the others about an acquaintance. They continued that conversation and Mary fanned open her cards again with quiet satisfaction.
THE EVENING BROKE up at an early hour, in keeping with Lady Catherine’s schedule. Mary rose from the card table with relief. Anne was exhausted. The evening’s exercise had not been very taxing, but the accompanying terrors and apprehension had been more than her nervous disposition was equal to. She had very little to say to Mary or even her mother, and once she was safely ensconced in her bed, Mary sought hers. As she took down her hair and stepped into her dressing-gown, she thought with satisfaction on the evening. She had acquitted herself well against her interlocutors, who must have hoped she was a silly girl eager to talk about her benefactors. Instead, Fordyce had armed her and armed her well.
As for Anne, the evening could be considered a success. Mary resolved to ask her on the morrow, when she was refreshed, what her opinion of the evening was. It had not been a very diverting night, and the second half of the evening was more of what Anne was used to, for she and her mother often played cards, but the dancing! Anne had done very well with the dancing. She should be well pleased, Mary thought. She yawned, braided her hair loosely, and blew out the candle. As she slipped into her bed, she thought that Lady Catherine should be pleased as well. Perhaps one Bennet she could approve of, Mary thought, and drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MARY THOUGHT LATER that it was the assembly that was her downfall. From the hours spent in friendship at the Collinses, teaching Anne de Bourgh to dance, to her charge’s successful, quiet debut into the small society of the country, all had gone towards putting Mary at her ease, the better to lure her to her doom. No evil snare was better set to entrap her – she walked into it with her eyes open and confident.
Anne was not the only one who came out that evening. Mary had impressed many of the gentlemen at the party, especially one of her partners, Mr Stevens. The portly gentleman came calling two days later and left his card. Lady Catherine grew thunderous, thinking the poor man meant to call on her daughter, when
he was in no wise grand enough for a de Bourgh. She was only somewhat mollified when she discovered that he expected to pay his addresses to Mary. She called Mary into the drawing room.
‘Miss Bennet, I cannot be expected to chaperone your courtship. If you encourage Mr Stevens, it will be under your parents’ roof, not mine.’
Mary endeavoured to assure Lady Catherine that she had no interest in encouraging Mr Stevens and that she was sure the gentleman was just being polite.
‘And yet you danced several dances with him, Miss Bennet. If that’s not encouragement, I don’t know what is. I will not harbour a flirt or a coquette. It is a bad example for Anne, though her reputation cannot suffer for it, except by connection.’
‘It was the nature of the assembly, Lady Catherine,’ Mary tried to explain. ‘We all danced with the same partners, for there was only one set.’ And none of us could sit down, she added silently.
‘You should have sat down, Miss Bennet. A young lady can always choose to sit down.’ Lady Catherine sounded appeased though, and her voice became more gentle. ‘My Anne danced, did she not?’
‘She danced very well, Lady Catherine. She was quite pleased with herself, as she should be.’
When Lady Catherine spoke next, she took Mary by surprise. ‘Miss Bennet, your presence here has done Anne good.’
Mary managed to stammer out her thanks and Lady Catherine waved a beringed hand at her.
‘No more suitors, Miss Bennet. You are warned.’
Lady Catherine should have warned the suitors. For it was not just Mr Stevens, but two or three young men from the village who were eager to talk to Miss Bennet after church and when they intercepted the two young ladies on their walks to the village. Mr Stevens was nothing – unsuitable for Anne. But the young men, closer in age and in lineage, and being that sort of person with whom young ladies prefer to fall in love, were to be prized. Yet none of them had much interest in Anne, who reverted to her bashful countenance, barely able to bow, when they drew near. They vied instead over Mary.
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