A Match for Mary Bennet (13 page)

The midsummer assembly surprised Mary, who rather enjoyed it. She wondered if indeed she resembled her younger sisters in the days of their frivolity. Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Long watched fondly as young Mr. Stilton took Mary's hand and led her near the top of the set, just behind Miss King and Jeremy Lucas. Stilton's dancing rivaled the high fashion of his watch chain—much hung with seals—and his clear blue eyes glistened, somewhat wildly to Mary's mind. But the clinking of his watch chain so amused her that Mary actually smiled while dancing. Mr. Grantley claimed her for the next two dances, surprising Mary and her ever-watchful mother, to say nothing of the many other mothers who had never before seen that man forsake his cronies and join the dance. And when he commented on how she seemed to enjoy her first dances, she thought again of the ridiculous clinking, and the word “rattle” came to mind. She smiled again because the word applied so fittingly to Stilton.

“This is midsummer madness indeed,” said Lady Lucas to Mrs. Bennet when she came to enquire about Mr. Stilton. That young man had introduced himself to Lady Lucas prior to asking Maria Lucas to dance, exactly as his aunt had primed him to do. Afterward, Maria introduced him to Miss King, while Mary Bennet danced with Jeremy Lucas, and then with his brother Richard. Stilton, quite the beau of the ball, showed his aunt that he could indeed dance, and what's more could enjoy it, and Mary shared in his popularity, as he returned to dance with her twice more.

On the way home, Mrs. Bennet did not seem overly pleased with Mary's smiles. “You must smile at a man, not as if you find him amusing, but as if you find him irresistible. Then he will find you irresistible too.” Mary only smiled again, deciding that she wanted neither to find a man irresistible nor to be found so by any man, least of all Stilton.

Back at Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet happily recounted Mary's triumph to Mr. Bennet, who took it calmly enough to enrage Mrs. Bennet. “How fortunate that I directed Mary to wear her blue muslin tonight, for she made such a fine picture with young James Stilton in his finery! Of course, she added a tucker of lace, which vexed me. She has as nice a figure as any girl there and could show it to greater advantage, but Mary will be so tiresomely modest. Oh, but that fashionable young Stilton set her off though—why, I believe she danced every dance.”

“Oh no, Mama,” Mary corrected. “During one set I answered Maria Lucas's questions about Mr. Stilton, and another time I stopped for refreshments with Mr. Grantley.” Still, to herself, Mary had to admit a certain pleasure in not pursuing her usual course of watching others and reflecting on the good Christian lesson of being overlooked.

Mr. Bennet, eyebrows raised, regarded Mary solemnly. “And your legs did not stiffen or fall off?”

Mary took him seriously, as usual. “Oh no, Papa. If anything, they became more limber.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

Mrs. Bennet, hearing Mary so matter-of-fact about her evening, hastened to take the account back into her own hands. “And she danced
three
times with Mr. Stilton. Such a fine, elegant young man in a linen shirt of the latest cut, dark blue tights, and a prodigiously handsome watch chain! Mrs. Long herself said the two of them might have been made to stand up together. What a delightful neighbour she is!”

“I perceive, Mrs. Bennet, that Mrs. Long with a nephew is far superior to Mrs. Long with nieces,” Mr. Bennet said, leaning back in his leather chair.

Undaunted, she went on. “Indeed yes. And then, you know, after supper Mary and Mr. Stilton played a duet that delighted the whole company!”

“You mean the whole company actually listened? How singular!” Mr. Bennet's tone registered his just doubts. “And who is this paragon, pray, who sweeps our Mary off her feet?”

“Why, a nephew to Nellie Long, of course, as I told you—you know, her brother's son who will inherit a fine property of his own in Nottingham of
five
thousand a year.”

Mary frowned at hearing the property's estimate growing at her mother's every recital. Why, at any rate, did she try to impress her own husband?

Mr. Bennet turned to Mary who was still frowning at the suggestion of being swept off her feet. “And Mary, did not Mr. Grantley take it ill that you found a stunning new friend?”

“Of course not, Papa. Why ever should he? I danced with Mr. Grantley as well—and do you know he did not even bring his walking stick? I do not believe he needs it at all, and he certainly seemed younger without it. He complimented us both on our duet after supper, and he did not seem out of sorts about it.”

“And you took refreshments in his company. Did he not question you about the American essays?”

“Oh yes, Papa. He said I was to tell you ‘It is a wise father who knows his own daughter.' I do not know what he meant by that.”

Mr. Bennet smiled. “Why, I would say he meant that your interpretation of his book must be truly original. Did you enlighten him on the real meaning of American freedom?”

“Certainly not. I only told him he could have his book back at any time, as I would not read such drivel a second time. It is in your library, in case he should call for it, though he urged me to keep it. I do not care for such paradoxical sentiments.”

“You found them so, did you?” Mr. Bennet looked his interest, encouraging her to go on, though Mrs. Bennet continued to make clucking sounds of disapproval. It was not her idea of a proper topic at a ball.

Mary went on, obliging her father. “Yes, Papa. Such fervour for liberty is itself a slavery, and to an idea that could so easily become a rage for doing exactly as one pleases. It fully explains why men would rebel against our sick king as if they had the right to do so. But I think that the contented man who accepts whatever God sends is freer by far.”

Mr. Bennet laughed gleefully. “And did Mr. Grantley share your sentiments?”

Mary shrugged. “I do not know. He laughed just as you did now, and then he gave me your message.”

Mr. Bennet, still smiling, sat back at ease. “So you had your triumph at a ball. Well, it is your turn, Mary. But mind you, do not lose your head and go running off to Gretna Green. I do not know how your mother and I would keep our composure without your sage words now and again.”

Mary reassured him. “Of course not, Papa. I have no intention of marrying at all. It hardly seems necessary now, you know. Kitty may do so, as she is keen on it, but I would not wish you to be left with no daughter at all.”

Mrs. Bennet immediately and vehemently objected to any such proposal, and Mr. Bennet calmly supported his wife. “Oh, if it comes to that,” he said, “I have become quite a traveller of late. If your mother and I visit three, or even four, counties a year, that is fine with me. We need hardly stay home at all.”

Mrs. Bennet did not look pleased at his response, and Mary sat silent, feeling sad. At length, Mr. Bennet asked, “Is something amiss?”

Mary sighed. “You did not say five counties, and it occurs to me that poor Lydia's improvident husband may keep her moving from county to county herself. How she must long for a home! It is a pity she was overeager for a husband and marriage.”

Her father was silenced, and he looked at his daughter with rare genuine respect. Mary felt his wonder but also felt she did not deserve it. She knew that it was Mr. Oliver who had noted Lydia's disguised misery. But if Lydia were to visit Longbourn, Mary resolved to notice it for herself.

In July, Lydia Wickham did visit Longbourn, and she came alone. Her sullen pettishness relieved by bursts of wild laughter and her offhand remarks disparaging the homely pleasures of Longbourn rendered Mary's study almost unnecessary. That was fortunate, for it was a kind of study so foreign to Mary that she knew she would have botched it utterly. Rather, she accepted Mr. Oliver's word on the state of Lydia's misery, and she interpreted Lydia's every action as confirming it. This left her with an immense wonder that a stranger could, at a single meeting, assess a truth that Lydia obviously meant to hide. But it did not render Mary capable of equal discernment. Lacking his clue, Mary realized that she would certainly have believed every word Lydia said and would have been shocked by much of it.

Mary knew her lamentable record on that ability. Had she not, at Pemberley, marvelled at how the Darcys always managed to sit or stand close during an evening, seeming to want no other amusement? Had she not heard their giggles over the jealous antics of Darcy's hunting dog, Fitz, when he shoved his nose between them? Had she not witnessed their shared pride and awe over the perfect tiny fingers and toes of newborn Charles? Yet, she'd had to ask Elizabeth if she loved her husband! Mary resignedly felt that this was simply her nature. She regarded Mr. Oliver's insight as divine inspiration of Biblical proportions. Mrs. Bennet had told Mary, “Lizzy marries this stiff and odious man because she thinks of you and your future.” As always, Mary took the words at face value. Any other knowledge of her sister came from what townspeople said of her, and if their views contradicted her mother's, she merely tried to puzzle out some solution or accept the enigma. Her study had always been for music and books. She heard and mentally recorded people's words in the same way she copied words she read. Could she ever hear what a person did not say? She resolved to try with Lydia.

During the three weeks of Lydia's visit, Mary had cause for compassion rather than censure. At the July assembly, Lydia's still-bold, still-childish teasing for dances too often bounced off mother-warned youths who withstood Lydia's advances. Could the whole tattered history of Lydia's elopement have been unfolded even to Stilton? Even he did not consent to partner Lydia until Mary prevailed upon him to do so, and she noticed that he went to his aunt immediately afterward as if he had to explain. Later, when the sisters met to talk of the dance, however, Lydia compared Stilton unfavourably to the dashing militia members no longer quartered in Meryton. In Mary's new view of Lydia, she saw this as wistful memories bringing back Lydia's carefree days. Could Lydia possibly have come to believe herself ill-suited to marriage or at least to marriage with Wickham? Certainly she did not act like a married woman.

Then abruptly, after a session in the library with Mr. Bennet, Lydia left Longbourn. Mary became again her mother's sole excuse to visit abroad or to stay home to welcome Stilton, whose habit it was to visit for an hour or so, usually in the music room. After that, Mrs. Bennet invariably found some reason to go out, and Mary's plans for other summer accomplishments had to be curtailed. Still, Maria Lucas had taught her to cut silhouettes, and she had a passable profile of Mr. Stilton, cut in the music parlour, before he returned to Nottingham. She had done that only for something to do after he had examined her treasure book, admired its binding, and then dismissed the selections with extreme distaste—“So much church music!” It was then she recalled that Mrs. Long appeared at church alone during the whole of Stilton's visit. Her dissatisfaction with that silhouette began at that thought.

She preferred the more recognizable one she had cut of Mr. Grantley, who had graciously consented to sit for it after a visit with Mr. Bennet one evening. She also had a tolerable one of Mr. Bennet, much criticized by Mrs. Bennet as “entirely too roundish.” She had never managed one of Mrs. Bennet, who could not sit long without talking or gesturing.

August arrived without Mary's memorising a single étude since June, without having read a whole book since early July, and with several linens hemmed but not embroidered. Then, in the second week of August, just when she was feeling rushed to complete some of her work before her Michaelmas visit to Jane, Sir William Lucas called to ask if she might accompany Maria to Kent for a visit with his older daughter Charlotte. It was to be short, a mere fortnight, during which he was required to be in London. He proposed to accompany the two girls to Hunsford, then leave again immediately, returning to escort them back. He explained that Maria required company while there, lest Lady Catherine concentrate too much on her when they must visit Rosings Park. Maria had never overcome her awe of that imposing dowager, and she wished for Mary because Mary seemed never flustered. Mrs. Bennet, having no Stilton to require Mary's attention, urged her to go see for herself whether Lady Lucas had truthfully told of Charlotte's wonderfully comfortable life. Mary agreed and was ready to leave by the last week of August, though she hardly relished a journey south so close upon her journey north.

Sir William and Maria entertained Mary on the journey with tales of Hunsford: its splendid gardens, its comfortable rooms, its serviceable staircases. Much of the talk reminded Mary of Collins's own panegyric on his vicarage when he wished to make Elizabeth his wife. Later, they turned their praises to Rosings Park, and again Mary felt that Sir William did little but quote Collins on that grand estate of his noble patroness. Mary recalled that Elizabeth had told her the substance of his information without any elaborate commendations, and as mere riches did not excite her any more than they had Elizabeth, she directed her questions to news of Lucas and Louisa Collins, and away from Lady Catherine. Sir William was glad to boast of his grandchildren, and for much of the remaining journey, he regaled them with tales of their antics. Most of these Mary had heard from Lady Lucas, but she did not mind the repetition. Finally, she remembered the name of Harold Witherspoon and asked about him, but Sir William knew little. “Mr. Collins praises him as a humble and industrious verger.” He did not even know what that young man looked like, never having visited on the Lord's day. As they neared Hunsford, Maria pointed out landmarks familiar to her in the beautiful countryside, while Mary kept thinking about the verger, glad that she would soon be able to make up her own mind about him.

They arrived at Hunsford on Monday afternoon, and Charlotte welcomed them warmly. Mr. Collins, whose surprisingly expanded girth suggested vast prosperity indeed, bowed less and boasted more than Mary had remembered. He showed her around the ground floor of the vicarage, insisting that she admire any addition suggested by Lady Catherine. In the morning room, she had to exclaim over “the new draperies that hang like silk” and at the stairway observe “the genuine mahogany newel post.” Mary only nodded at this. To her mind, finery of any kind amounted to mere vanity, nor could he show her anything she had not seen at Pemberley, where it was regarded as ordinary. As he spoke, she grew more conscious of his apoplectic mien, his puffing, and his halting speech. She worried about his health and became overly conscious of his size. Try as she might, the saying “The bigger they are, the harder they fall” stuck in her mind. It occurred to her that it may be young Lucas who would inherit Longbourn, or even Charles Darcy! Not knowing the full provisions of the entailment, she could only conjecture as to what would happen if Collins should die before Mr. Bennet. But truly, Mr. Collins did not look well.

Mr. Collins had stopped at the staircase, and Mrs. Collins approached. “Observe my dear wife,” he said, as if she were part of the tour, “she keeps to modest apparel. She does not braid her hair nor adorn herself with gold or pearls or costly array. Lady Catherine praises her in all things, though she sometimes scolds her for feeding me too handsomely.” He patted his stomach. “Lady Catherine would approve your plain apparel as well, Miss Bennet. And Mrs. Collins tells me you made yourself useful in a Derbyshire parish with your good works. That is a fine thing in a woman.” Mary idly puzzled over his praise of embellishments in furnishings while he decried them in women.

Sir William approached to take his leave, telling them duty called him to Saint James Court, and Collins walked out to the carriage with him.

Charlotte did the honours above stairs, much to Mary's relief. She did not think she wanted to see what climbing stairs would do to Mr. Collins. Charlotte merely showed Mary to her room and made sure she would again find the way. She also said wryly, “It is at Rosings Park, where meats are many and sweetmeats rich that Mr. Collins is urged to eat his fill. Then he must—he says, out of politeness—praise each food, in thankfulness to his generous patroness.”

Young Lucas, whom they encountered in the nursery, took to staring solemnly at Mary. A sturdy, quiet lad of about four, he surprised her by approaching to touch her gown as Charlotte pointed out educational reasons for the nursery decorations. Charlotte frowned at her son and directed him, “Lucas, you must bow to Miss Bennet, and say good day. You must not wrinkle her nice gown.” As he obeyed his mother, she said to Mary, “He usually runs from strangers. I can not imagine why he did that.”

Mary assured Charlotte that she was more honoured than disturbed by the attention, while Maria tried in vain to attract the child. “Lucas, come to Aunt Maria.” But he stood his ground and bowed to her as well.

Although distracted by the solemn child's continuing stare, Mary saw only gentleness in Lucas, and she occasionally turned to smile at him while attending to Maria as she gave Charlotte news of Lucas Lodge.

By Tuesday, Mary had learned that the vicarage had no pianoforte and few books. Happy that she had improved her needlework skills, she offered to help Charlotte, who was sewing dresses for Louisa to grow into. Charlotte explained, “I found myself always a bit behind with Lucas, who grew faster than I had provided for. Lady Catherine frequently pointed out that his sleeves were too short for his arms. With this child, I mean to be prepared.”

As they worked quietly, the companionable comfort recalled Mary to Longbourn with her sisters. Then Lucas, released from the nursery for a time, wandered in and watched attentively, gradually edging closer to Mary. He did not touch her, but kept his eyes on her hands as she worked. Mary, moved by his silent surveillance, smiled at him as she worked. Charlotte observed in amusement, “I believe he finds in you a kindred spirit, a person of deep quiet. Usually, he follows me around, though now he takes quite an interest in baby Louisa. He screws up his face and seems upset if she cries. But never have I seen him attach himself to a visitor as he does to you.”

Later, when Lucas returned to the nursery presumably to nap, Maria joined them in their work. She had been walking the grounds to remember favourite haunts of her previous visits, and she reported on some changes. “The little glen surrounded by trees has been much used since last I was here. Was it you who put hassocks by the tree stump?”

Charlotte looked her surprise. “No, not at all. I would not touch that area, as it is part of the Rosings estate.” She paused, considering Maria's information. “Perhaps we are wrong about Miss Anne never meeting Witherspoon in the woods.”

Glad for the mention, Mary ventured to put her questions about Witherspoon to Charlotte, who laughed gently. “Oh, he just showed up here one Saturday last year and presented himself to Mr. Collins. He calls him ‘Venerable sir,' which pleases Mr. Collins. And he offered to do odd jobs about the church, saying it would please him to work ‘so near to God.' Now he arrives at every week's end, stays at the inn, and comes to polish the candelabra, bells, and thurible on Saturday. Then he brushes the pews, cleans the floor, changes flowers, makes himself a regular servant to the church. On Sundays, he rings the church bells, attends the service, and follows Mr. Collins out. I notice that when Mr. Collins engages Lady Catherine in conversation at the door, Witherspoon bows to Miss de Bourgh and endeavours to give attentions to the daughter as Mr. Collins does the mother. He used to bow to me also, but I ignored him, and he discontinued the habit, for which I am grateful.”

“Surely you were not rude to him. I cannot think that.” Mary had always respected Charlotte as Elizabeth's good friend.

“I hope not. I just try to be busy enough with the children to appear not to notice him. Something about the way he creeps about the place unnerves me. If I am not mistaken, Lady Catherine shares my sentiment. She once asked me privately if I thought that Witherspoon and Anne meet secretly in the park. At the time, I pointed out to her that Anne never goes out alone and surely is not strong enough to attempt it on foot. I felt that I reassured her, but now I do wonder.” Charlotte held up the frock she was hemming and studied it as if measuring. “Mr. Collins gives the fellow a shilling each week for his services, and he bows and thanks my husband as if it were a half crown. There is something of the packman or thimblerigger in his manner, but I cannot imagine what he could be selling.”

“But he comes only on Saturday? Where does he live?” Mary pressed the newly embroidered cloth between her hands as she had seen Elizabeth do.

Charlotte glanced approvingly at Mary's work. “I believe he said he lives with his ailing mother somewhere in town. And he must have some work there as well, for he does not lack money. However, he never talks of it, and while here he wears a kind of pinchbeck shovel hat and seems to emulate a clergyman. I admit that at times I see a touch of mockery in it, but despite my misgivings, he seems a harmless young man for all his strange ways.” She set aside her finished work and thought awhile. “Still, Lucas runs from him.” She said this slowly, solemnly, as if perhaps her remarkable son may have insight she might attend to.

Mary finished the small robe she had been decorating. “I rather look forward to seeing him; he sounds a fanciful character.”

Charlotte praised her fine work, thanking her even as she wondered when such talent had been acquired. As far as she could remember, Mary had assiduously neglected needlework in the years when Charlotte was their Hertfordshire neighbour.

At dinner Maria, having become curious through Mary's questions, brought up the name of Witherspoon. Mr. Collins, rolling his eyes heavenward, called up an eloquence usually reserved for a Rosings Park meal. “Ah, such a splendid young man! He is so conscientious, so industrious. I wonder how we ever got on without him. After his week's work in London, you know, and caring for his ailing mother, he comes here to offer himself, just to embrace the church. Miss Bennet, you would appreciate him above all, as you too have offered yourself in service to a church in Derbyshire. Mr. Witherspoon is so honest, so forthright, and so eager to please. I daresay, when you meet him, you will see how much you two have in common. And each Sunday, you know, he presents a small gift to Miss de Bourgh—some sweetmeat or trifle brought from a London baker's shop. He once told me he fears that Miss Anne lacks nourishment. Can you imagine such kindness, when he cannot be a wealthy man, surely, and must work hard for every shilling. But, you know, I worry about him, living as he does in cheap rooms in London, where he may be exposed to typhus or worse. Indeed, last week I thought I heard him cough. You remember, Mrs. Collins; it was when Miss Anne mentioned his many arduous labours. What a shame the man has never taken orders! He has such respect for the clergy and takes on all of the verger's work here at Hunsford, saving me a great deal of labour, God bless him.”

Charlotte offered Mary a second slice of roast, and as she declined, Collins helped himself to it and another dollop of potatoes with gravy. “There is just one strange habit Mr. Witherspoon has,” he said and then paused, chewing slowly. “That is, when he greets little Lucas, he bows and calls him ‘Master Lucas, future vicar of Hunsford.' And then he laughs as if there were some joke. I can make no sense of it.”

Charlotte gently spoke up, while handing round the fruit bowl. “My dear, you observe how Lucas runs from strangers, and he usually runs from Mr. Witherspoon as well. Perhaps your verger simply attempts to take the rebuff in good humour.”

Mr. Collins nodded as he chewed, and Mary found herself astonished at Charlotte's appearing to explain in so gentle a way the actions of one she had admittedly thought disagreeable. Here indeed was the dutiful wife, speaking as her husband would approve. As to Witherspoon, she eagerly awaited the Saturday arrival of this oily paragon. She would judge for herself, using her best attempt at discernment.