A Match for Mary Bennet (11 page)

Mary, enjoying herself alone in the music room while Georgiana entertained Lady Elliott in the morning room, began to play some of the folk tunes in the back of her precious book. She skipped over ones that she already knew well—though she noted that these had new and interesting-looking harmonies—and she concentrated on the new ones, attempting them one after the other. One particularly sprightly tune caught her fancy, and she stayed with it until her playing grew easy and loud, at last giving quite a lusty rendition. Georgiana burst into the room, followed by a perplexed-looking Lady Elliott.

“Mary! What are you playing?” Georgiana looked flushed and excited.

Mary turned back two pages to the title. “It is called ‘Mansion of Peace.' Do you know it?” Almost at once she recognized one passage as the tune Georgiana reverted to so often in her melancholy. “Oh, is this your remembered piece? I did not at first recognize it; I must have played it at the wrong tempo.”

“Not at all. I am sure you have it right. Oh, please, may I try it?”

Mary rose from the bench immediately. “But of course. I did not mean to secure your instrument for myself.”

“Oh I want you to feel free, as you well know. It is I who may wish to secure your treasure-book for my pleasure. I swear I will copy every note for myself, only humour me just now.” Georgiana turned back to the beginning and studied it awhile before playing. “Oh! There are words too.” And unselfconsciously, Georgiana did what she rarely did in front of anyone: she sang as she played, and she adopted the livelier tempo as indicated. When she finished, she said, “Oh, Mary, it is like finding a lost childhood friend. How can I ever thank you?”

Mary flushed with pleasure, and she would have torn out the pages for her, but Georgiana shielded the book as the treasure it was, and she reached for pen and the staff paper which Darcy had carefully lined for her use. Soon she was thoroughly absorbed with her copying, and Mary tiptoed over to Lady Elliott to explain to her in a whisper about Georgiana's obsession with the tune. Then she excused herself to pay a last visit to her other treasure, the library, for a delightful hour with Bunyan and Cowper.

Her energy almost back to normal, Mary helped Polly collect her belongings for the journey home to Hertfordshire. Her palpable yearning for the plainer comforts of Longbourn surprised her. Oh, she might miss the large soft beds, ginger beer at tea time, and Sunday suppers of vegetable pie, and she would certainly miss the library, but she could even look forward to the frivolity of the Meryton assemblies. Those folksy social gatherings had never appealed to Mary before, but she found herself pleased at the prospect of a society where she knew everybody. Her months at Pemberley had stretched to a much longer sojourn than she had reckoned. While she had grown comfortable enough at Pemberley, she felt assured that life back at Longbourn, even after being the guest of her sister, would still suit her just fine.

In these last few days, Darcy had been much at Kympton, and one day Elizabeth confided to Mary that Mr. Oliver's errand in Kent would involve his meeting Lady Catherine and Miss Anne. Mary nodded. “That is kind of Mr. Darcy. He is a devoted nephew.” Mary, relieved to know legitimately at least that much, still hoped she could manage the long ride without any conversation on the subject. Overhearing her host and his aunt stuck in Mary's consciousness “like burrs,” as Bunyan had noted of fancies. Mary, not much given to fancies, let guilty knowledge haunt her in much the same way. She preferred to ignore whatever she did not need to know, and she endeavoured to push unwanted words from her mind, “like sparks that from the coals of fire do fly.” She thought then of Oliver's words about Elizabeth, and she wondered greatly about Lizzy's quiet mood during Darcy's absence. After a lull, she ventured to ask, “Lizzy, Mama says you married Mr. Darcy to atone for refusing Mr. Collins and losing Longbourn for us. Was that true, or did you really love Mr. Darcy, as you seem to now?”

Elizabeth, completely unprepared for such a query, looked at Mary as if wondering what thoughts had prompted such a question. “I loved him then deeply, immensely, though perhaps not as much as I love him today because there are always new reasons to love. How could you ever think otherwise?”

“Well, Mama accounted for your changing opinion of Darcy by her own constant scolding you for refusing Mr. Collins. She thought you were providing for us, and I was truly grateful. But it did seem, seeing you here with him, that you loved him very much, and I was confused.”

Elizabeth studied Mary for a while, noting her serious, open expression. “I see. No, I never could convince Mama that I truly loved Darcy, possibly because it was only Papa and Jane who knew the whole truth about him. Now I will tell you. It was Darcy who found Lydia in London, Mary, and who paid Wickham's debts, and who purchased his commission in a second regiment, and he did it for love of me. When I learned that, I was completely in love, though my dislike of him had long since melted away.”

Mary was dumfounded. “It was not Uncle Gardiner?”

“No. Of course, he could not take the patrimony of his own children for any such thing. But I know I may trust you to say nothing of this. I do not believe either Kitty or Mama could keep from embarrassing Darcy if they knew it. Lydia is bad enough. She feels somehow that it entitles her to ask him for even more on account of his generosity to them once. I knew by that gesture the fine man Darcy was, and when he asked me again to marry him, I accepted gladly.”

“Again?”

“Yes, that is the wonder of it. He did all that even after I had rudely refused him, thinking him the world's proudest man. I was even worse to Darcy on that occasion than I was to Mr. Collins on refusing him. Oh, you can imagine my love and gratitude when he swallowed his justifiable pride and asked me again. I thank God for it daily.”

Mary, amazed at this discovery and happy for Elizabeth, promised solemnly to keep her secret, only sorry to have yet another secret to harbour. “I see now why you seemed so quiet and sad when Darcy went to London. I fully expected you to be more relaxed, yet it seemed you were much less so.”

“That is true. I feel complete only when I know he is nearby.”

Mary respected her greatly for her revelation, and as much as she had appreciated what she had seen as Lizzy's sacrifice, she was delighted to know it was never made.

The journey in Lady Elliott's magnificent carriage did not discomfit Mary as her travel north had done. The carriage, with its decorative stripes of silver and red, impressed her even before she viewed the cosy interior. And whenever they passed someone on the road, the Elliott arms on the side of the coach drew interested glances to see who travelled within.

Mr. Oliver, as eager for his native Kent as Mary was for Longbourn and Lady Elliott for London, made even meal stops brief. Then, he kindly returned to the carriage with boiled eggs or biscuits, or cheese and fruit whenever the inn offered such foods, fearing the ladies had been rushed. Mary felt no lack along the way except for, as Lady Elliott pointed out, a decent wash-up. Darcy had provided generously, and when they stopped, Oliver always enquired after the best that the inn offered.

Once, when Lady Elliott slept, Oliver stared thoughtfully at Mary from his perch across from her. Finally he said in low tone, “Have you accepted your youngest sister yet?”

Mary looked at the carriage floor. “I believe I must. You may be right about Lydia, for you knew about Lizzy.”

“You asked her?”

“Yes, sir. Soon, I may see Lydia at Longbourn to observe her more carefully as well. Perhaps when you are in Kent, you may meet Mr. Collins and learn why he advised us as he did.”

“Mr. Collins?”

“He is the vicar of Hunsford and my father's cousin. If Lydia does repent, he may change his mind too.”

Oliver laughed softly, glancing at the sleeping Lady Elliott. “Mrs. Wickham may well have repented her choice many times over already. Mr. Darcy led me to believe that the wife of a man like Mr. Wickham would have many reasons for sorrow.”

Mary frowned. “Still, she has always acted as if she did a clever thing in catching him. It is a pity he was so celebrated in Meryton as a handsome prize to be won.”

“Of course, I saw her but once, and my impression may be inaccurate, but she appeared as a waif desperate for fun to forget the miseries of her lot. Did you not see it in her eyes at the ball?”

Mary struggled to recall her fleeting glance at Lydia on that occasion. “No, sir. I had not looked at her closely, and I am not good at forming conclusions at any rate. I only heard her empty laughter.”

“Ah, you heard, then, the forced quality of her gaiety. Did that not speak to you of her misery?”

Mary puzzled about that. “I cannot say I have ever been so astute as to see what any person would wish to conceal. I have not the gift.” Pretence, so foreign to her own habit, escaped her notice in others. She resolved to accept Oliver's assessment, and in future, she would look more carefully at Lydia's bravado. She sighed deeply.

Oliver smiled. “Perhaps that is only because you would not think of putting on a false impression for the benefit of others.”

She wondered how he could know that. “Mr. Oliver, when I was very young, I heard a prayer in church begin, ‘Jesus, our internal Shepherd… ' Up to that point, I had lied as much as anyone, mainly to avoid the discomfort of Mama's displeasure. But from that day on, I imagined Jesus shepherding my inner thoughts, and I have tried to live without disguise. When I said it one day to Lizzy, she laughed and said the prayer was to ‘Jesus, our
eternal
Shepherd,' but I held to my version because I want Him there. But I try so hard to be forthright that I am blind to others' deceits. However, in Lydia's case, I will try in future to see it your way.”

“And forgive her?”

“Oh please, Mr. Oliver. To forgive is to accept such a lordly role. People do not offend me. My sister Jane always said most injuries are mere fancies not at all intended by the so-called offender. I try to avoid fancies. How can I be so bold as to forgive?”

Lady Elliott, who had been awake some little time, remarked, “How beautifully bizarre!”

Mary's face warmed, and she was not sure that Mr. Oliver had not reddened, finding the Lady awake. He spoke in more normal tones of his youth in Kent, and he seemed in good spirits, Mary thought. He referred to games played with his two older brothers behind inns and butcher shops. He said his brothers were robust boys who called him “Bookworm” or “Preacher” from his earliest remembrance. Mary could relate to that, but when she tried to compare the Kent he described to Elizabeth's description of the country parsonage at Hunsford with its surrounding woods and hills, she deduced Kent must be a most varied county. She told him so.

“Oh, we visited the country too. Once, when we were exploring the woods, Richard and Martin forged on ahead, pushing brush and twigs aside, but I could not keep up, and every hefty twig snapped back into my face. They found that hilarious. A particularly sharp withy cut my lip so deeply they had to take me home to be bandaged, staunching the blood as we went. The scar is still there, but at least I can cover it now with a moustache.” He fingered it, smiling.

Mary, ashamed at having found the moustache a dandyish pretension, yet teased, “And did you forgive them?”

Oliver sat up straight, frowned, then erupted in laughter. “Why, you have me there! I believe I never looked upon it as injury so much as my own awkwardness. I think I probably felt guilty for making them take me home.”

After exhausting himself in entertaining the ladies for several miles, Mr. Oliver lapsed into lulls of quiet and finally nodded off, leaving Mary to amuse her hostess in the Elliott carriage. “Perhaps it is my turn to sleep soon, Lady Elliott, but I do not think I could fully relax in so grand a carriage; I might drool on the plush bolsters or fine silk hangings.”

“I pray you, do not worry about such trivialities.” Lady Elliott laughed, revealing dimples in her pale cheeks. “Are you impatient to be home, Miss Bennet?”

“I believe so, though not so much as to make me anxious. I have been away longer than I intended, and certainly longer than ever before from Longbourn.” Mary looked out of the spacious window on to the rolling hillsides. Her mind went back to Pemberley with its lovely rolling park. “Lady Elliott, have you known Miss Darcy for a very long time?”

Lady Elliott paused to think. “About seven years. Actually, I knew her companion, Mrs. Annesley, and it was when I encountered Mrs. Annesley in Bath that she introduced me to Miss Darcy. They had gone there to see if Mrs. Annesley could benefit from the waters.”

“And did she?”

“Not that I noticed. Nor did Lord Elliott, who had hoped the waters could cure his apoplexy. In fact, he died there.”

“Oh, I am sorry.” She was indeed sorry to have started such a subject but searched in vain for another. “It is sad that people go there only in their extremity, when it sounds such a romantic place for a vacation. I suppose the experience discouraged you from ever returning?”

Lady Elliott smiled. “My experience did discourage me, but it was not merely my husband's death that did so. Bath itself is all vapor, shouting, smoke, and confusion. If that is romantic, I will have none of it. Has not Miss Darcy given you a similar impression?” She adjusted her pillows so as to have a more comfortable view of her companion.

Mary thought awhile. “No. Miss Darcy has been wonderful to me, but I believe she speaks less about herself and her experiences than does anyone else I know. When I asked about her recent stay in London, she said only that she always enjoys being with you. She did not mention a single museum, theater, or park. She said only that you went somewhere everyday, and that she was well entertained. She might have been anywhere from her account of it. She certainly never mentioned Bath to me.”

“Well, as to that, I say intelligent girl! The less said about Bath, the better.” Lady Elliott smiled and shook her head, causing grey curls to bob beneath her bonnet. “But I know what you mean. Miss Darcy notices everything, tries to please whomever she is with, and dwells little upon her own concerns. The most I ever saw of her spontaneous enthusiasm was upon hearing you play her song. Then nothing would keep her from finding out about it. And your hint about her striving to find a part of her lost childhood is the closest I have heard to an explanation of her shyness. You must be a very observant young lady.”

Mary hastened to assure her that this was not so. “I only hear what others say. It was Elizabeth—Mrs. Darcy—who told me about that tune she plays. And as often as I had heard it, I was so dull that I did not so much as recognize it when first I played it. Georgiana did that herself.” Mary leaned back and thought of Georgiana, wondering if she was happy. How strange if she should not be, as rich and as loved as she was. “I do hope she finished copying it, for I have my copy with me to enjoy at Longbourn.”

“I believe we can be sure she has it. Every clue to that past must be precious to her. I now recall that she perks up on some London streets, and once she even asked me to slow the carriage while she peered carefully at some of the large houses. I believe it was near Regent Street. Do you happen to know anyone who lives there?”

Mary shook her head. “Not unless the Darcy town home is near there. The only persons I know in London are my aunt and uncle, and they live in Gracechurch Street. I do not think they could possibly have known Georgiana as a child.”

“I suppose not.” Lady Elliott refrained from pointing out the unlikelihood of Georgiana's ever having visited so unfashionable a district as Cheapside. “I would love to help her find herself; she is such a dear soul. Perhaps when next she visits, we will keep going to the area she is curious about, until she may see something that brings back a memory.” Lady Elliott then leaned back, engrossed in her thoughts.

Some time later, Lady Elliott left her two passengers at a London post where Mary had to await a carriage to Hertfordshire and, Mary assumed, Mr. Oliver to Kent. Mary reluctantly bade farewell to the elegant lady, happy to have come to know her a little better.

When Mary turned to say farewell to Mr. Oliver, she found him bent on escorting her to Hertfordshire before going to Kent. When she looked at him quizzically, he shrugged, “Mr. Darcy instructed me to see you safely to your family. You do not mind?” Mary actually found herself relaxing, and until then she did not know how reluctant she had been to travel post by herself. Fortunately, their wait was short, as was the distance to Meryton, where the postillion pointed out a carriage waiting at the Dragon Inn. Mary recognized it as her father's, and she looked around for Wilkins. She thanked Mr. Oliver for his kind attentions. “I'll not detain you, sir, and I bid you good journey into Kent.” Mr. Oliver alighted from the carriage then to hire a carriage back to London, and when he waved and smiled to someone behind her, Mary saw with surprise that her father and Kitty waited by the carriage. When Wilkins transferred her trunk to the Longbourn carriage, she again said farewell to Mr. Oliver and joined Kitty in the carriage.

Mr. Bennet greeted her warmly. “Ah, Mary, we have missed your pithy remarks. You have stayed away too long; we are all in danger of sinking into frivolity. And while Kitty and your mother do not think it such a perilous state, I have suffered great anxiety.” He grabbed her bandboxes and put them on the highboard with Wilkins.

Mary ignored his wry humour, just happy to be back. On the ride from Meryton, she listened patiently to Catherine's excitement over glimpsing again “that tall, handsome Mr. Oliver—who smiled at me!”

Mary immediately felt sorry that Catherine's visit to Pemberley would likely take place during Oliver's whole summer stay in Kent. And what a pity that the vicar could not entertain Kitty's attentions, which should certainly have been more welcome to him than those of the silly young choir girls. Then Mary sat back in the coach, marshalling her thoughts and affirming her resolve to enjoy visits with her mother. Having accompanied Elizabeth on errands to townsfolk she did not know at all, she would welcome visiting familiar neighbours. She would study people with the attention that she had heretofore reserved for books and music. Lacking lively effusions of wit and humour to add joy to her world, Mary resolved to imitate Georgiana in the way she served others' wishes in all that is good. She had enjoyed full acceptance at Pemberley while doing Lizzy's bidding, and she would be an agreeable sister to Lizzy when living there permanently.