The Unexpected Miss Bennet (4 page)

Yet as she came to know her cousin, Mary started to realize several things. First, he never heard a word she said. He listened to Mr Bennet and Mrs Bennet and responded to them, but after the second or third time she spoke, he would merely look about and continue with whatever thought he was pursuing at the moment. Second, he never really looked at her – her conversation might have been coming out of thin air. He looked at Jane though. With little grimaces and winks and a ducking of his head, he made it clear that he saw Jane.

Mary had never begrudged Jane her beauty or her goodness or the attention she drew from any one, men or women. Jane was all goodness – even pert Lizzy, whose tongue could make one smart, knew it, and she softened under Jane’s attentions. No, Mary knew that she could not match Jane for all those accomplishments a truly good person had. But she sometimes wished, though a little forlornly, that she could be the centre of so much attention with so little effort. And then had come Mr Collins! The man who, from the moment he walked into their house –
his
house – was clearly a match for Mary, was already half in love with Jane! Even the sober, dour, plain suitors, who should have known better, had known that Jane was marked for a grander sort of marriage than they could offer, even they could not see beyond her beauty to look about them for a better match.

And
then
. To discover that Mr Collins had transferred his attentions to Lizzy! That was an idea so ludicrous on the face of it that it was hard not to repeat ‘Mr Collins and Lizzy!’ in increasing tones of astonishment; that there seemed never to have been a thought for Mary was another unpleasant surprise.

When Mr Collins married Charlotte Lucas, Mary thought that she could at last understand her mother’s nerves. To her it was as if someone had walloped her in the stomach.

She knew she had not loved him; far from it. Mary was a Bennet, and she was not the stupidest one. That prize belonged to Lydia at present, though Kitty seemed likely to make a bid for it. No, Mary quickly discovered that Mr Collins was ridiculous and unsuitable for any one, even a one such as she. But was she so unnoticed and so preposterous a marriage prospect that even
Charlotte Lucas
was a better match? As far as Mary knew, Charlotte never opened a book and her conversation centered on the doings at Meryton and her brothers and sisters, with never a thought about the wider world. What kind of rector’s wife would she be?

He should have at least looked at me, she thought, as she sat in the drawing room with the tea, waiting for her mother and Mr Collins. He should have heard what I had to say. Why would he not listen?

A conversation caught her attention as her father met Mr Collins with a rumbling greeting. Before they all entered, with Mrs Bennet fluttering behind them, chattering about all the preparations for Kitty, Mary had one last small indulgence in self-pity.

It would have been fine if for once Mary Bennet had had the attention of even a most unsuitable suitor.

Mr Bennet and Mary entertained Mr Collins in the drawing room while Mrs Bennet attended Kitty. At intervals they could hear from upstairs the sounds of much thumping and raised voices with occasional words, as mother and daughter enjoyed the kind of communication that is emphasized with many italics. Mr Collins pursed his lips as he sipped his tea, looking quite pleased that he could hold forth on the situation.

‘I have observed in my little parish of Hunsford that many young females of good birth are easily excited by the idea of company in town. I have mentioned it many times to Lady Catherine, that young ladies, unlike Miss de Bourgh, seem to have a certain sensibility that would be better suited, not to town, where their passions are raised unduly by late nights, rich foods, and heady attentions, but to the quiet country life, where their emotions can be soothed by regular company and fresh air. As I told Lady Catherine, Anne does not have that feverish attack of sensibility, but rather is more calm and rational than many other women. Don’t you agree, sir?’

‘I think, Mr Collins, that you overestimate the power of the quiet country life on girls. I have not noticed it to any great effect, and I think I have had the benefit of quantity to go by.’

This, Mary thought, was where Mr Collins would nod at Mary and point out that she, at least, was a quiet country girl unaffected by the desires and whimsical delights of the wicked city. Or, even more likely, would he not bring up Charlotte?

He would not. ‘Perhaps the natural inclinations of your daughters have been more powerful than those of most others of their sex. As for my patroness’s daughter, she seems to be more the type of female who finds dignity in quietness and patience. She would never dream of being so forward.’

Mr Bennet said something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘Not with such a mother, she wouldn’t.’ He said it into his teacup and so the words were muffled, but Mary had to turn her own laugh into a cough. She had met Lady Catherine once and heard much more about her from Lizzy and even from Maria Lucas. She could put a picture together in her head. For the first time, she felt pity for the daughter. To have such a mother! Then she thought: Anne de Bourgh has suffered the oppressive effects of too much of a mother, while I have endured the permissive effect of not enough.

Her father’s eyes twinkled at her over his teacup, and for a moment he and she exchanged a silent understanding. In the sudden silence, they heard Kitty cry, ‘It’s not fair! It will make me look like a child!’

Mr Collins set down his cup hastily and stood, a blush coming over his complexion. ‘I will leave you then to your day, sir. I hope that your plans to send this daughter into company will not go awry as they did the last time. Lady Catherine has expressly mentioned that she will be seriously displeased if another Bennet makes such a scandalous alliance, and this time I could not hope to restrain her anger.’

‘Please tell your patroness that we would not dream of so disappointing her hopes,’ Mr Bennet assured him.

‘Thank you, sir. And if you wish to ask her for advice in raising the remainder of your daughters, I am sure that Lady Catherine will be happy to impart her wisdom to you, for she has most diligently raised the flower of nobility herself.’

‘To be sure,’ Mr Bennet said with great solemnity. ‘Upon awakening every morning I ask myself, “What would Lady Catherine do?”’

With much bowing and grimacing and ducking, Mr Collins took his leave. They saw him out, and off he went to visit Lucas Lodge, where he had, no doubt, a vastly more welcoming audience, although, Mary thought, she had seen Sir William visibly gather himself when approached by his son-in-law.

Mr Bennet closed the front door behind him and turned to Mary. ‘So what do you think, Mary? You know, he could have been yours, had you just been more nimble than Lizzy’s best friend.’

She eyed him with great seriousness. ‘Would you have permitted it, Papa?’

She expected a laugh; instead, in the dim hall, his face grew sombre.

‘I hope I would not have allowed it, daughter.’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead and stumped off to his study, leaving her to her astonishment.

KITTY WAS OFF in a final flurry of activity, the small carriage whisking her away to her sister Jane with several ill-packed trunks. Longbourn fell silent under the cool freshness of early summer, and Mary ventured to walk out by herself. The path to Meryton led Mary through verdant fields, though there was mud underfoot. She picked her way carefully to avoid wetting her slippers but still her hem was often deep in mud. It felt very odd, not having any of her sisters with her. She was not used to walking into the little village by herself. Her mother did not walk. Mrs Bennet said the exercise exacerbated her nerves.

MERYTON LOST ITS few charms when ventured into alone. Mary did not care overmuch for ribbons and bonnets, though the stationer’s was a favoured stop for paper and pens, and also carried books and ladies’ gazettes. After a few days of unhappy walking into town, Mary took to finding secret nooks in the fields and walks beyond Longbourn where she could read in the shade of trees and by the slow-running brook that ran into the pond by the house. Once, with great daring, she climbed the branch of an old tree that had a perfectly formed limb, just right for sitting, and she felt as if she were a child again. She tore her dress climbing down, though, and had to hide the tear from her mother until she could safely mend it in her bedroom at night.

That was different too. For the first time, she had the room to herself. It was her things on the nightstand and in the dressing-table drawers; her belongings were strewn exactly where she wanted them. At first it was hard to sleep at night without another body next to her and the warm breath and night movements of her sisters to comfort her. Then she grew to like it.

Perhaps Kitty will get married right away, she thought. Then I would never have to share a bed again! Unless I married . . . The thought made her uncomfortable and she shied away from it. To settle her thoughts, she lit the candle to read a bit more, until her eyes grew tired and sleep came. The first page she came to, opened at random, was Fordyce’s encouraging thought on marriage:
Establish it betimes as a certain maxim, that to be married is neither the one nor the chief thing needful
.

Certainly Mary had not thought of marriage as her one true aim. It is not that she did not wish to marry, she thought. It just didn’t consume her every thought as it did those of her sisters and other girls she knew. Lydia, for one, had thought of nothing else but beaux, and look where it had led her, though Mary supposed that was because Lydia was easily led. When Mary thought of marriage, she often considered it as a state to be entered into rather by accident than by design, which she supposed was Fordyce’s point. Striving to catch a gentleman was ill-behaved, to be sure. But there was a difficulty, once again, with Fordyce’s opinion. If I
do
not marry, she thought, and I
may
not work, what will happen to me? Once again she grew cross with Fordyce. It was almost as if he didn’t really understand young women and their position after all. One could be good and kind and not care about worldly things, and accept that an earthly beauty turned to dust after but a few years of youth and joy, but the fact remained that this world required one to be more practical. When her father died she would have to leave Longbourn, with her mother or without her. Mary knew not where she would go. Neither, she thought pointedly, did Fordyce. He didn’t have all the answers. Happiness in the next world was indeed dependent upon forsaking the transient pleasures of this one; but still one had to eat and live.

There – if she kept thinking dark thoughts she would never sleep. It had happened before, when the night brought unhappiness banished only by dawn. Mary closed the book and blew out the candle and prayed to let herself be easy. As comfort warmed her and she drowsed, she had a curious thought. Perhaps she should not rest all of her hopes on Fordyce. He had been a good guide, but a narrow one, and she had begun, if not to walk a different path, then at least to question the mapmaker. I can still be good, she thought, sleepier now. But what price goodness if it comes too easily? Maybe she needed to put her goodness to the test.