The Unexpected Miss Bennet (6 page)

‘It is so good to see you, Aunt,’ Mary replied. Her uncle crushed her into a hug.

‘Good to see you, my dear girl,’ he said in his bluff and hearty way. ‘It’s about time you got out from behind a book. How are you? Enjoying your solitude, I hear?’

‘Somewhat,’ she replied judiciously, for she had been thinking lately about her current aloneness. So often before her sisters had gone away had she wished for solitude. ‘I had not realized how much I would miss my sisters now they are gone. Family are so important to one, but we don’t ever know how much until we are separated.’

‘No, we don’t,’ Mr Gardiner said, smiling, well used to Mary’s ways. ‘Well, now you go off to enjoy the delights of Pemberley and Lambton, and I am sure you will have much to tell us when we see you again at Christmas.’

At the mention of Christmas the little cousins all put up a clamour about their favourite Christmas puddings and songs, games and gifts, until Mr Gardiner had to laughingly threaten them with no puddings and no games unless they could refrain from deafening them all. In the hubbub, Mr Bennet greeted his wife’s brother and they conversed while helping to transfer Mary’s trunk and cases into the carriage. In the meantime, Mary and Mrs Gardiner and Mrs Bennet let the children run to give themselves the patience to withstand the rest of the journey. As they walked they chatted, with Mrs Bennet giving Mrs Gardiner the news of Longbourn and Meryton, unaware perhaps that Mrs Gardiner could take little interest in such news, as she did not know any characters in the drama as Mrs Bennet recounted it. At her first opportunity, Mrs Gardiner turned to Mary and asked her if she looked forward to her journey.

‘Mama was not happy at first that I was to go,’ Mary admitted. ‘And I do feel some guilt, but I think it might be better for us to separate now, for we can only feel our reunion that much more strongly.’

‘Nonsense, Mary!’ Mrs Bennet said. ‘You will not miss
me
, for what is Longbourn compared to Pemberley?’

‘It will be a lovely holiday,’ Mrs Gardiner agreed. She raised her voice. ‘No! Not in the farmyard!’ The exuberance of the children proved too much for Mrs Bennet. She admonished Mary to not bore her aunt with her sermons, and hurried thankfully back to the house to see about luncheon.

‘Now tell me, dear, what of Lydia? Have you heard from her?’

Should I tell her? Mary wondered. She hesitated, then said, ‘Kitty writes to her, but Lydia writes hardly ever in return, and when she does her notes are short and ill-presented. Lydia writes to Jane much oftener, but I think it is only to ask for money.’

Mrs Gardiner shook her head. ‘Does Jane send any?’ Mary just looked at her, and Mrs Gardiner sighed. ‘Of course she does.’ They both laughed a little, an unspoken
Dear Jane
between them. Mary felt a shade of pride that she and her aunt were sharing a conversation as between two grown women, not as between aunt and niece. Then Mrs Gardiner said, ‘She shouldn’t, though I fear that I don’t know what is worse, that Jane supports them or that she does not.’

Mary puzzled over that for a moment, then she said, ‘Do you mean . . . if Lydia does not get money from Jane, she and Wickham will do something . . . dishonourable?’

Mrs Gardiner nodded. ‘We all feared, you know, that Lydia had gone on the town when she first disappeared from the For-sters. Her marriage is ill indeed, but at least we can be relieved that for now she is saved from that fate. Unless – I do not know what would make Mr Wickham honour his marriage vows once the money runs out.’

Mary felt a chill for her sister. ‘How easily a woman falls,’ she whispered. ‘How narrow a path she must tread.’

Mrs Gardiner instantly felt a pang for talking so forthrightly to a young woman. ‘Well,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Yes, to be sure, but Mary, remember, that goodness is in part chosen. Lydia was given all the advantages of respectable breeding and upbringing, and she chose to throw that all away for an irredeemable wastrel.
You
have nothing to fear. You have too much sense to lose your self-respect in a bad alliance.’

I don’t know what I fear more, Mary thought, but could not say as much to her aunt. Losing my respectability . . .

Or never having the opportunity to prove myself.

WITH THE CARRIAGES loaded, they all went back to the house and enjoyed a leisurely luncheon. A gentle rain had fallen that morning, but the afternoon was clear and bright, a little breeze sweeping in through the open windows. The children chattered, the men talked over business in their bass voices, and Mary found herself taking part in all the conversations about her with an ease and joy. With the children she discussed kites and hoops, ponies and favourite trees to climb. With Mrs Gardiner she listened as the older woman discussed her roses and her favourite flowers in her garden. She listened to her father and uncle as they easily conversed on the business of town and country and ventured once or twice to make a small comment. They listened in turn and she felt gratified at their attention. Even her mother was less impatient than usual. It was somehow easier to converse when one didn’t have to wait for a chance to impress. Here were only her father, her mother, her aunt and uncle, and their children. With what ease Mary was able to carry on a sensible conversation without attempting to over-awe her companions. In the first place, the children would be insensible to it, and in the second, as she had become acutely aware, her elders would not be insensible enough.

At last they finished their meal and took their leave. Mary gave her mother and father a hug and a kiss before climbing into the carriage with the Gardiners.

‘Be good, daughter,’ came Mr Bennet’s gruff goodbye. ‘Remember, you may have as many ribbons as you want, for I know you of all my daughters will not let it go to your head.’

Mary tucked herself inside and waved to him as they rattled on their way. When at last she pulled her head back inside the carriage, tightly packed as they were, she thought to herself scornfully, ribbons! Her father certainly seemed preoccupied with them.

She pulled herself together and settled in for the long journey.

THEIR WELCOME AT Pemberley was everything the travellers could wish for. Lizzy and Darcy and Georgiana waited to meet them at the top of the drive where their tired horses pulled up in front of the great house. The children tumbled out of the coach; Mr and Mrs Gardiner and Mary followed more sedately.

Mary threw back her head to look up at the house, tilting up the brim of her modest bonnet. It was not the first time that the Bennets had been to visit Pemberley, but the beauty of the house never failed to strike Mary, who found herself conscious of its age and dignity. This house is almost human, with a great character, rather as if it were a statesman, or a king, she thought. She resolved to write down all of her flights of fancy during her visit, for she was sure that she would be inspired by her surroundings.

The children and her aunt and uncle were still greeting Lizzy and Darcy, but Georgiana caught her eye. The young girl smiled and bowed, and Mary bowed in return. Georgiana was the same age as Lydia and Kitty, but she was so shy and stiff that Mary had barely exchanged a few words with her.

‘Hello,’ Mary said awkwardly, wondering whether they would exchange a sisterly kiss.

Georgiana blushed but she held out her hand. ‘I am so pleased that you’ve come,’ she said, as if she had to force the words past her lips.

‘Thank you. I am happy to be here,’ Mary said. This was so hard! She could not think of anything else to say.
Your house is lovely
? Mary thought that everyone must tell Georgiana that. Desperately she cast about for some conversation, when Darcy came over to stand by his sister. His smile was not forced but grave, as he always was. Mary was intimidated by her new brother. How she remembered with sharp embarrassment her own attempt to attract him when he first came to their little town with Mr Bingley. She had no charms except for the piano and her voice, which even then she knew were inadequate to the task. She remembered hoping that he would be impressed by her knowledge of music and its delights. Now she hoped his memory was not as keen as her own.

‘Miss Mary, I trust your journey was not too fatiguing.’ Still solemn, he bowed.

‘Not any more than can be helped,’ she said.

Lizzy broke away at last from the little cousins and came and took Mary’s hand.

‘Oh Mary, do not try to converse with him, the two of you will be miserable exchanging small talk.’ She gave Mary a hug, held her tight, and Mary held her back. They were not often affectionate, but this time Mary felt certain that her sister had been missing her. ‘Come, you can rest after your travels, for I know how cramped a carriage can be. Come, all of you, into the house, and we can talk to our hearts’ content in more comfort than on the drive!’

Mary watched her sister as they all trooped in, still a chattering, conversing group. Lizzy looked much the same – after all, she had been married scarcely a year. But her conversation had lightened, become less teasing, less likely to draw blood, she thought. Perhaps marriage had softened her edges. The thought unnerved her – was the old Lizzy gone?

She felt someone looking at her and looked over at Georgiana, who by virtue of the large group now walked next to her. Fortunately she remembered something about the girl from the last time they met.

‘Do you still play piano?’ Mary ventured. Georgiana smiled with relief.

‘Yes, as often as I can. Your sister is very kind – she says she enjoys listening to me play.’

At that Mary felt a pang of jealousy – how often had Lizzy impatiently said to her, ‘For goodness’ sake, Mary, leave off!’

Georgiana went on, ‘But you play, too, and sing. We must play together. It will be so much fun.’

Mary opened her mouth but could not speak under a rush of so many memories and new feelings. How could she claim to play when she hadn’t touched a piano for weeks? And she remembered the last time she had sung in front of Darcy and Bingley and the rest. Would that she had never become so self-aware!

‘I – I don’t,’ she said awkwardly. Georgiana looked at her and, with the idea that she had been mistaken, colour stained her cheeks in another blush. Mary tried to explain but she couldn’t. ‘I stopped,’ she concluded lamely, just as they reached the doors.

‘Oh,’ said Georgiana. The two of them turned away from one another, discomfited.

Their conversation had involved only each other and had been conducted under the guise of the general chatter, but somehow in all the confusion, Lizzy must have heard. She turned and looked at Mary, her expression one of surprise and confusion. Mary ducked her head and hurried past. She would rather not explain that she thought she could not bear to play and be compared to Georgiana Darcy, due to inherit £30,000 and the adulation of society. Georgiana was judged to be quite accomplished, she knew, and she, Mary Bennet, had only small accomplishments to her name, and those were of little consequence, even to her family and her circle of acquaintance. She could not let herself be compared to Georgiana Darcy, for she would only come up wanting.

She knew what Fordyce would say. He would write that she should accept with humility her limitations and be a true lady, meek and mild. Something within Mary rebelled. I don’t want to be humble, she thought. I want to be known as accomplished. I want to be known for doing something no one has ever done before. If I am not supposed to have these feelings and these ambitions, why was I given them?

As she followed the others into the house, Fordyce was silent on the matter.