The Unexpected Miss Bennet (2 page)

With this letter Jane hatched her plot and waited for Lizzy’s reply.

LIZZY GAVE A fond smile when she received and read the missive. Always like Jane, to think of others as deserving of all good fortune that fell to her!

But if the world were as just as it claimed to be, all good fortune would be heaped upon Jane and those of like character, and there would be none for the rest of us,
Lizzy said to herself.
And that would not do at all
. She stood and paced the small sitting room that she had claimed for her own when she became mistress of Pemberley. The great house was hardly a house at all, and its inhabitants – Lizzy, her young sister-in-law, Georgiana, and her husband, Darcy – rattled about in it as loosely as buttons in an old hatbox. Elizabeth was used to cosier comforts. Longbourn was small, and old, and respectably shabby; this little room, which received the afternoon sun and looked out over a small bit of wilderness, reminded her of her childhood and her upbringing.

When her gaze fell on a miniature of her husband and all that it represented, she knew that Jane was right. Perhaps Mary would never find such happiness, but to withhold any opportunity from her by the simple expedient of assuming that she of all others would never fall in love, that she would never attract a respectable man, was as prejudiced a thought as any that Lizzy had been susceptible to.

For we all know how that turned out,
she thought.
My prejudice almost cost me my love. How much more dangerous then, to hold such assumptions concerning my sister, and to wield such power by omission as to prevent her from ever discovering whether there is a man for her. Jane is right – we must do all we can for Mary.

When she entered her husband’s study and gave him a kiss as he bent over his letters, he smiled up at her, his expression lightening so much that it melted her heart.

‘You have the look of mischief about you,’ Mr Darcy said. ‘Much as when we first met and exchanged words. Have I need to fear?’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I merely came to warn you that I am my mother’s daughter after all. Jane and I are prepared to make a match for Mary.’

O
BLIVIOUS OF SUCH plans being made for her by her elder sisters, Mary Bennet sat at the piano at Lucas Lodge and played her favourite airs as all around her young men and women of her acquaintance danced and laughed. She sat in the corner in the small ballroom, her face serious as she played, hardly looking up at the swirl of gowns around her. The dance was lively, for Sir William and Lady Lucas loved a party and enjoyed playing host to all the young people in the neighbourhood. And all the neighbourhood came to their assemblies, where conversation and laughter abounded. It was a merry time, and even Mrs Bennet, who had cause to look askance upon the Lucases, could be found sitting with the other mamas, all boasting of their offspring.

With the eldest two Bennet sisters married well and the youngest married but not spoken of, Longbourn was no longer at the centre of the small Meryton society. Now it was Lady Lucas’s turn. Her eldest daughter Charlotte was comfortably settled, but Lady Lucas still had unmarried daughters to find husbands for, and she viewed Mrs Bennet’s triumphs less with chagrin than with relief. Now there was a clear field for her other children.

For her part, Mrs Bennet only occasionally forgave Lady Lucas for her eldest daughter Charlotte’s marriage to Mr Collins, a Bennet cousin and Mr Bennet’s heir. To her credit, she did her best, but Mrs Bennet could not think kindly of Charlotte until her two eldest daughters had surpassed her marriage with their own. Even then, it only took the word ‘entail’ to cause her nerves to dance with indignation.

When it came to the assemblies, though, she tried to put her feelings aside. To Mrs Philips, her sister, she said, ‘It keeps Kitty happy to have a dance now and again, and as for Mary, it gives her something to do. I think people whose daughters marry other people’s cousins for the entail could be less happy, perhaps, but then again, my sensibility is extraordinary in that regard. None the less, I will not say a word to Lady Lucas but only smile and nod when she tells me of Charlotte and her new baby boy. No doubt Mr Collins had a son on purpose. However, I will not speak anything of it, though it is bad when a property is entailed away from its rightful owners.’

She finished giving this speech just as Mary brought a lively gavotte to an end with a flourish. The assembly broke into laughter and applause, then the dancers turned towards the punch bowl for refreshment, their faces flushed and their heads giddy. It was a cool summer night and the doors had been thrown open to the garden.

Mary sat back with her fingers folded, waiting to be called upon again. It was pleasant enough to have a position in the neighbourhood as the willing musician, but she felt a faint prick of disquiet as she looked out over the assembled guests. Almost all were young men and women with whom she had grown up. No, in many cases they were younger than she was. She had left the schoolroom some time since, and was now a full-grown woman of twenty years. She frowned, and then remembered her mother’s strict admonitions not to scowl so, as it wrinkled her brow.

‘Do you not get tired playing?’ came a voice at her side. Mary started and looked up at the young man smiling pleasantly at her. She remembered that they had been introduced but she had already forgotten his name. His dress was unkempt and his hair overlong, but he had a good-natured smile and she smiled back at him.

‘Music is the balm that comforts our souls,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t tire me to play.’

‘Even music for dancing? I find it exhilarating, rather than peaceful. But I cannot sit and do one thing over and again. I must always be moving.’

Mary opened her mouth but had nothing to say. Young men didn’t often talk to her. She felt heat rise in her cheeks and tried desperately to think of some aphorism or other. He didn’t seem to notice her reticence. Instead, he suddenly smacked the top of the pianoforte, making her jump.

‘I know. You should dance the next dance with me, and then we can compare whether dancing or music is the more tiring.’

He spoke as if it were the simplest thing in the world, that she should just rise and dance. With him.

Before she could say a word, Maria Lucas jumped in.

‘Oh no!’ she said. ‘Mary doesn’t dance – if she did we would have no one to play, for none of us has the patience. Go on, Mary – we’re all ready. Play more for us. Mr Aikens, you are ready, I know, and you promised to dance another with me.’

The young man looked between them and his smile faltered. Mary felt her mouth move in a smile of her own, and she began another air. She kept her head down, concentrating on her fingers, until she sensed that the man had gone. When she looked up he was dancing with Maria Lucas.

THE FAINT FEELING of discontent pricked at Mary for days after that evening. The piano at Longbourn remained silent, its lid closed. Mary sometimes wandered towards it out of habit, but when she sat at the worn bench she felt a vague disgust. It no longer suited her fancy to sit and play. With the piano silent, the house was quieter than ever, the liveliness that five daughters had brought to it muted. Kitty was full of chatter as usual, but only their mother answered her vivacity or querulousness with her own. Mrs Bennet never said a word about the unused piano – she only dozed in the afternoon in the parlour where the instrument stood. Mr Bennet was as silent as a father could be, spending his days on the farm and his afternoons in his library when he was not visiting Lizzy.

With the piano no longer bringing joy, Mary turned to her sermons, but the familiar words no longer brought the same comfort. She had read Fordyce’s
Sermons for Young Women
so often that the pages had become smudged under her nimble fingers. Now, she read them with a less captivated eye. Where before she had found herself nodding in agreement with his admonitions concerning grace, charity, and humility, in which his opinions had so much become her own that she hardly knew where his left off and hers began, she now began to grow uneasy. For instance, had her copy of the sermons
always
held this counsel?

Mary was disturbed. What exactly had Fordyce meant? Surely he could not mean that a young lady could practise
too
much? It was as if he had aimed his words straight at her. She knew there was a vast chasm between what she wished to play and what she could play: her fingers, no matter how diligently she practised, did not run along the keyboard as nimbly as did those of other women. And her voice was not pretty. Though she practised singing as often as she was able, she knew she had not the same pleasing tones as other women. None of the Bennet sisters could sing, but that was cold comfort. None of the others
wanted
to sing. Only Mary did.

And now here was Fordyce admonishing her for her application. That bolt shot uncomfortably close to home. She was so unsettled by the betrayal of a most well-loved and comforting book that she shut the volume violently, rousing her mother, who woke from her nap with a small shriek.

‘Mary!’ Mrs Bennet said. ‘Have some consideration for my nerves. You know I cannot stand sudden noises that sound as if your father were shooting pheasant in the kitchen.’ She settled herself again, straightening her shawl and her cap rather like a ruffled hen.

‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ Mary managed, though the words choked her. She slipped out of the parlour and stood for a moment in the dim hall. I am as bad as Mama, she thought. I have the fidgets and cannot sit still. The sense of disquiet deepened at the realization that all of her comforts – piano, sermons and learned essays – had become as ashes to her.

Her father came out of his library and seemed startled to see her in the hall. He looked astonished at her – she wondered if her face told of her agitation.

‘Well, Mary,’ he said in greeting. ‘What meditations on the wickedness of men have you worked up for us today?’

She stopped to consider the question seriously, though she was no fool and knew he asked it only to laugh at her. ‘Nothing yet, Papa,’ she said at length. ‘Perhaps, like Lydia, I should begin a thorough investigation of it myself.’

He did laugh – but it was a startled, appreciative one, and Mary smiled back, somewhat shyly. She did not often make her father laugh, or at least, not as if he laughed with her.

The parlour door opened and Mrs Bennet peered out, her cap askew. ‘For goodness’ sake, Mr Bennet! What do you mean by laughing in such a fashion?’

‘It was Mary, my dear. She has suddenly acquired a sense of humour.’