The Pursuit of Mary Bennet

Dedication

For Katie, with all my love

Contents

Chapter 1

S
ometimes anger is a living thing. It rose up in my chest and made me want to chew thorns. They would tear at the tender flesh on the roof of my mouth, at my cheeks and tongue. When I swallowed, the sweet, salty taste of blood would linger on my palate, along with pointy bits of thorn. I squeezed my eyes shut, contemplating the pain.

Why was I loitering outside the upstairs sitting room, eavesdropping on a conversation between my parents? Especially since it aroused such ire in me. That couldn’t be healthy. I leaned closer.

“To see all my girls but one settled. Such joy!” Mama said.

“Is Kitty engaged, then?” my father asked.

“She soon will be, mark my words. We will have another wedding by Michaelmas.”

We had already celebrated three weddings in the family. My two elder sisters, Jane and Elizabeth, had wed wealthy and propertied gentlemen three years ago, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy. Lydia, my youngest sister, formed a rather disastrous union with one Mr. Wickham, formerly of the militia, and went off to live in Newcastle, as he was currently attached to a regiment quartered there. Only Kitty and I remained at home.

“Ah, you refer to Mr. Walsh, I presume,” Papa said. “Jane describes him as a reserved sort of fellow. Not at all the kind I thought Kitty would have chosen. Perhaps she is too eager to be wed.”

I nearly choked on the irony. Kitty’s foremost preoccupation was with finding a husband. And success at last! She had lately acquired a beau, a friend of Mr. Bingley’s, whom she met during a lengthy stay with Jane and my brother-in-law. The very man my parents were now discussing.

“What do you mean? He’s a handsome man, and has six thousand pounds a year! You only met him the once, Mr. Bennet, and cannot have formed a correct impression. And anyway, who cares if he is reserved?”

“Kitty, perhaps?”

I pressed my lips together to quell a laugh. I pictured Mama casting my father a severe look and knew his gaze in return would not waver. “Walsh has made his intentions clear, then. Shall I expect a visit from him soon?”

“Not yet, but it won’t be long.” Assured for some time of the matrimonial nature of the relationship, she had, I was quite certain, already spread the idea around the neighborhood.

“What of Mary? Does she wish to wed?” Why was he inquiring about me? No one ever thought of me when marriage was discussed. I was a person of no consequence. I’d never had suitors, nor did I desire any.

“Mary will make an excellent governess for Jane’s or Lizzy’s children someday,” Mama said. “Marriage is not for her. I cannot think of any man who would have her.”

I imagined dashing into the room and pouring the contents of the teapot over her head. She was wrong, in any case, about one thing. Neither Jane nor Lizzy would want me as a governess for her children. They didn’t think well enough of me.

“Perhaps Mary should have some say in the matter,” said my father.

“Bah!” she said dismissively. “When you are dead and Mr. Collins takes possession of our home, dear Jane or Lizzy will take us in, depend upon it. And her sisters will welcome Mary’s help.” Mr. Collins was our unctuous cousin, upon whom my father’s property was entailed. My mother believed his intention was to swoop down upon us grieving females to claim his inheritance before Papa was lowered into his grave. I cringed every time she mentioned Papa’s death, seemingly unconcerned about his feelings on the matter.

She continued. “Of course, she may be called upon soon enough to Newcastle to help Lydia and Wickham when their child is born.”

And that was what infuriated me and made me wish to chew thorns. Sharp, spiky thorns. It was time to make my presence known. I knocked.

“Mary,” my father said. “Sit down and have your tea. Tell us your opinion of Kitty’s lover.”

He has two heads and is only three feet tall
.
I grant you, both countenances are fine looking. And Mama is correct; he does have six thousand pounds a year, from his appearances at country fairs and exhibitions.

“I hardly know him, sir.”

“Of course you do. You’ve met him at High Tor, have you not?”

“On a few occasions. But I’ve never had a conversation with him.” In my mind’s eye, Henry Walsh stood in the doorway of the salon at High Tor, Jane and Mr. Bingley’s home, while I played the pianoforte. A few years ago during a visit to Elizabeth at Pemberley, my sister had persuaded Mr. Darcy that I would benefit from instruction on that instrument. To my surprise, he arranged it and bore the expense, and my playing had improved dramatically. Since then, I’d had to amend my opinion of the man. He was not the insufferable snob I once thought him to be. Unfortunately, no one suggested voice lessons, and so my singing continued to make people squirm. I refrained from forcing anybody, family or friends, to listen to my off-pitch performances.

On the evening in question, Mr. Walsh, who was far too handsome and fine figured to entertain locals at a country fair, leaned into the door frame watching me and presumably listening. Perhaps he was carried away by the music. I felt all the self-consciousness—and irritation—one would expect from such attention but managed to maintain my composure. After a few moments, the rest of the party arrived, and I rose, surrendering the instrument to Georgiana Darcy. Mr. Walsh had seated himself next to Kitty. A few furtive glances in his direction assured me of his indifference to me. Excellent, since
I
did not desire his attention.

“But you’ve observed him and Kitty together. What do you think of the match?”

My father’s insistent questions caught me off guard. Was he teasing? My opinion usually counted for nothing. “I-I confess, I have never noticed them speaking much to each other, aside from the usual courtesies.”

“Oh, what nonsense!” Mama said. “What good is talking, anyway? It only leads to quarrels and misunderstandings. I wouldn’t place too much importance on it. I am certain they have a great regard for each other.”

“You’re right, my dear. Why should any lady desire to converse with the person she may be spending the rest of her life with?” His gaze shifted to me, and I noticed the thinly concealed mockery it held. “And what about you, Mary?”

Settled on one end of the sofa, I’d been pouring my tea and pondering what to say to Mama regarding Lydia’s lying-in. I had not expected all these questions. “What do you mean, sir?”

“A man, of course. Any prospective suitors at Pemberley or High Tor who have captured your interest?”

My mother snorted. “Men don’t notice Mary.”

Her words burned, as though she’d slapped me. I wished I were bold enough to invent a suitor, a handsome, elegantly dressed gentleman with £15,000 a year, who had declared his undying love and devotion to me. But I’d have been found out soon enough.

“Of course not, sir.” Resentment, so entrenched, rose in my chest against them both.

But when I raised my eyes and peered at him over my teacup, my father’s look held no hint of disdain. Since my elder sisters had married, Papa paid me more attention than he used to do. I believed he missed Lizzy’s sharp wit and intelligence, and I hoped I might someday take her place, if not in his heart, at least intellectually. Though I was foolish in so many ways, I harbored no improbable dreams of replacing Elizabeth in his affections.

I added milk to my tea and thought back to the morning Papa had first summoned me to his library and suggested a volume for me to read. “Mary,” he said, “I set out some books for you. If you would be so good as to read them, perhaps we may, from time to time, discuss them. You might begin with Marcus Aurelius.”

I recalled how reverently I’d run my fingers over the books before picking up
The
Meditations
and, after a quick curtsy and murmured thank-you, scurrying from the room, fearing my father would change his mind. Thus, over the course of the last few years, I had studied the Romans and Greeks, English history and literature, and whatever of Shakespeare I hadn’t already read. John Donne, John Milton, Samuel Pepys, Dr. Johnson, and James Boswell. A whole new world had opened up to me, a world far beyond Fordyce’s
Sermons
and Chapone’s
Letters on the Improvement of
the
Mind
.

Papa left me to my own reflections, for the most part, although on a few occasions he asked my opinion of one of the works. Once we had a lively discussion of Pepys’s diary entries about the Great Fire. For the briefest moment, his eyes danced with excitement, just as they used to do with Lizzy, right before he returned to the volume in his lap. He reminded me to shut the door on my way out, which I often forgot to do.

I smiled at the memory and sipped at my lukewarm tea, reflecting on my current situation. With Lydia gone, Kitty was kinder to me, inviting me to sit with her and Mama while they sewed, netted reticules, and shared whatever gossip was currently circulating around the neighborhood. Mama pestered me to take up my own work, but I preferred reading. The best days were those on which my mother and sister visited Lady Lucas or my aunt Philips. I welcomed the quiet while they were from home. As did my father, I was quite certain.

Even better, Mama and Kitty often spent a fortnight or more with Jane or Lizzy. I also made brief visits to my elder sisters when invited. Although they and their husbands extended every courtesy to me while I stayed with them, I was painfully conscious of their invitations to me bearing the weight of obligation.

If I were to raise an objection to a sojourn in Newcastle, now was the time. I bit into a scone to fortify myself. “Mama, I believe I heard you mention my attending Lydia when her child is born.”

“You were listening at the door. Wicked girl! How many times have I admonished you not to do so?” Mama herself was an inveterate eavesdropper, but I was to be labeled wicked on account of it. I ignored her remark, and at last she said, “Yes, and so what of it?”

“I think it would be far better if you or Jane or Lizzy were to go. I know nothing of births or taking care of babies.”

She gave me her most formidable glare. “Such cheek! Look at you, Mary, you have crumbs on your bosom.”

I brushed at the crumbs, my face flushing with embarrassment. “I don’t believe I would be very helpful in the circumstances.” That was not the chief of it. The thought of passing any time with Lydia and the husband who’d been forced to marry her turned my stomach.
Mama couldn’t make me go.

She continued her rant. “
I
could not withstand the rigors of the trip. My nerves would never allow it. And your elder sisters are busy with their own families. It is your duty to go, Mary, as the only unmarried sister.”

“But, Mama, I am
not
the only unmarried sister!”

“Before long, you will be!”

“Kitty should go. You know how close she and Lydia are.”

“We dare not remove Kitty from High Tor at this time. No, that wouldn’t do at all. It must be you. You’ve nothing to do besides embroider seat cushions and trim bonnets.”

Two of the most odious tasks I was sometimes forced to undertake. My mother made it sound as though these were activities I chose to do. The truth was, she herself insisted these were skills all young ladies must possess. Quite satisfied with last season’s bonnets given to me by Jane and Lizzy, I desired no others. Why should I? And in my view, none of the seat cushions appeared worn. Mrs. Hill had taken the utmost care of them over the years.

Just then, that lady appeared in the doorway with a stunned look upon her face. “What is it, Hill?” Mama asked, a sharp edge to her voice.

“Miss Lydia—I mean Mrs. Wickham—is here, ma’am.”

None of us made a response. We were too stunned.

With her usual shrill laughter, Lydia flounced her way into the parlor. She was great with child, her time fast approaching. “You needn’t look so shocked!” she said, untying her bonnet strings and dropping her reticule on the nearest table.

My mother hastened to the side of her youngest and favorite daughter. Clapping her hands in unrestrained delight, she said, “Lydia, dear, what a joy to see you. But you should not be traveling so close to your confinement.”

I stared at my sister, who seemed grotesquely large.
A cow about to calf.

Papa caught my eye, his brows quizzical. “What is the reason for your visit, Lydia?”

“I’ve left Wickham,” she announced as she pulled off her gloves. “I am moving back to Longbourn.”