A Match for Mary Bennet (24 page)

After Whitsun, Mary observed her regimen carefully, as she had done in her days at Otherfield. She spent some time riding or walking, had a light breakfast of whatever Betsy put out (she had given up trying to learn to cook); she played some music, did some reading, and worked on some sewing, an occupation Elizabeth would be happy to know she had come to value. She had also sought out the formidable Mrs. Clifford to beg for lessons in the art of transposition. Some hymns presented so difficult a range for the young, untrained voices that she had long regretted her inability to adapt the music to suit them. Surprisingly, Mrs. Clifford graciously offered an afternoon a week for these sessions at Kympton's organ, and Mary resolved to show her gratitude with gifts of produce from Pemberley gardens and orchards to which she had full access.

One misty morning after her ride, she found a letter from Elizabeth, which Betsy had laid on the hallway table for her. Surprised that her sister had thought of her at all, the bulk of it astounded her. She opened it eagerly and sat in the parlour, still in her riding coat, to learn the prodigious news.

Dear Mary,

How exciting and how fortunate it was to visit Lord Exbridge, for ever so many reasons! Now when I think we may not have done so but for your information about Lady Caroline (for so she is to be), I am so unspeakably grateful to you. While there, we met Lord Exbridge's daughter-in-law Martha and his grandson and namesake David. We learned that Darcy's letter requesting our visit prompted the lord to do what his family had been urging for over two years: he asked his son's widow and her son and daughter to come live with him. Martha Exbridge played hostess charmingly. She no doubt provided exactly what the lord needed in his home after living so long in bleak loneliness.

Now here is the real surprise of our visit: Georgiana thanks you more than any of us for your suggestion because the visit opened her closed past to her! As soon as she entered the mansion, she exclaimed and began to wander the rooms as in a dream. She explained that it exactly matched a vague childhood impression, and she declared that she knew every inch of the place. Darcy could only guess at the connection, but Lord Exbridge confirmed that Lady Catherine had often visited, many years ago, with her teenage daughter and much younger niece. When Darcy was at school, his father, in deep mourning for his wife, had asked Lady Catherine to care for his little daughter, who was sent to her with her nursemaid until about her sixth year. Exbridge confirmed that Lady Catherine and Lord Lewis had brought the girls frequently for long holiday visits when his son's family also visited. Georgiana stared at young David, who also studied her, and together they remembered games, toys, and places they had known when very young.

By evening, Lord Exbridge grew lively, sharing their joy in remembered pleasures and filling in details that they only half recalled. Martha Exbridge played country dances, and we danced—even in my condition—along with the young couple. Never have I seen Miss Darcy so lighthearted, and she declared that when she had played “Mansion of Peace,” it was this house she thought of sadly, thinking it lost to her forever. I have come to believe it was this loss that gave birth to her shyness, and Darcy and I beheld her grow whole again. If my eyes did not deceive me, young David felt the same. He who had been shy and awkward on first greeting us, became warm and smiling at Georgiana's delight, and his gaze rested most comfortably on his childhood playmate. When I tired of dancing, I sat down to play the boulangerie and Darcy took Martha's hand for the dance. Afterward, young Susan showed her prowess at the instrument.

Later still, Darcy sat down with a renewed Lord Exbridge and told the story of Henry Fitzwilliam and his brother's valiant search for the Viscount. At learning the details of the care Fitzwilliam provided, Lord Exbridge himself suggested knighthood for the Colonel, and he vowed to write the request to the Prince Regent himself! That fortnight could not have transpired more favourably than it did. We are all indebted for your information concerning Lady Caroline. (You observe how I practise the title, lest in the future I should make an unforgivable lapse!) We had found Lord Exbridge still half alive, but we left him a man of purpose dictating a full commendation of Colonel Fitzwilliam and planning to restore his own country residence to the splendour it had when Capability Brown had landscaped it. He also insisted that he, Martha, David, and Susan would convey Georgiana to Lady Elliott in Saint James Court, where Georgiana will visit for the summer. I suspect that she will visit as much with the future Lord Exbridge as she does with Lady Elliott, but as that serves only to enliven her, I am sure Lady Elliott will approve.

Darcy and I came directly to Longbourn only to find a disappointed Lewis Grantley, M.P. Having heard that a daughter was expected to visit, he came looking for you! He informed us that some singular interpretation of essays he had given you caused him to reread them, effecting a change in both his mind and his manner. Our Netherfield neighbour now declares that such extreme devotion to personal liberty might break a nation into individualism, could destroy all civil discourse, and could fracture community. He devotes himself to his own country with renewed appreciation, no longer trying to uphold the ideals of revolution. Mama relates how he appears now in church and mixes readily with country folk. Talk of him has grown kinder, and many of our neighbours, including the Lucases, comment that, as with Mr. Darcy, they may have been all wrong about Mr. Grantley. What a civilising effect you have had upon him! He begs to be remembered to you, even as he appears to pay some court to Kitty, who tolerates his attentions quietly. Papa and Darcy agree that he has a good influence on her, as she neither pouts in his absence nor flirts in his presence. Papa sends his love, as does Darcy. Mama sends her exhortations to you-know-what! We leave soon for Kent and whatever revelation Miss de Bourgh has for us. The rest of our tour has been so delightful that we are resolved to accept graciously what Kent holds for us. Give our love to the Gardiners, who may soon be at Pemberley.

Yours, Lizzy

Mary, all wonderment at Elizabeth's revelations, went upstairs to change for breakfast humming and reciting to herself, “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.” After breakfast, a full rain set in and Mary resigned herself to staying indoors, but no sooner had she settled down to needlework than Aunt Gardiner arrived in her carriage to ask Mary to accompany her to Nottingham to see Jane.

On the way to Otherfield, she shared much of Elizabeth's news about Georgiana, omitting only what concerned Lady Caroline, as she did not think Elizabeth would wish her part in that to be known. At Otherfield, Mary and little Beth entertained Jane and Aunt Gardiner for a short time at the pianoforte. Then Beth repaired to the nursery with Annie while Aunt Gardiner spoke of London fashions, registering her criticisms of them and quoting Mr. Gardiner's ridicule of most. “He says the young ladies talk of spotted muslin, tamboured muslin, and sprigged muslin endlessly, as if the whole world revolved around choosing the most fashionable muslin! I remind him that young men boast of their fast steeds, of horses bought for a trifle and sold for a king's ransom, of racing matches they always guessed right, and of killing more birds than anyone else.”

Jane was well entertained, and Mary enjoyed their aunt equally. They did not stay long, as Jane grew tired, and the persistent rain forbade any walking outdoors. Mary returned with her aunt to Pemberley and one of Mrs. Reynolds's fine teas. Surprisingly, Mr. Gardiner and Shepard had gone fishing as usual, paying scant notice to the rain until Mr. Gardiner found he must change his wet clothes before venturing to join them for tea.

In the day's last light the rain stopped, and Mary picked up a favourite volume of Cowper's poems and walked the half mile to her cottage reading it.

June days slipped by with frequent visits from Aunt Gardiner and rides to Otherfield to attend Jane, who was now confined to her sitting room. Mary's progress in transposition satisfied her teacher, and Mrs. Clifford, whose respect for discipline was great, encouraged Mary in the effort. Each day Mary enjoyed returning to her cottage with its comfortable solitude, and she reflected often on her great good fortune. One evening she lingered over the substantial cold supper set out by Betsy before retiring, and her heart filled with grateful wonder at the circumstance in which she found herself with no contriving of her own. She blessed Elizabeth for loving so consequential a man as Mr. Darcy, whose thoughtfulness and generosity constantly amazed her. Sometimes Mary felt overflowing with wellbeing, and sometimes she had the uneasy thought that such bounty could not last. She tried to imagine a time when, if it did last, she might tire of so long and uneventful a residence in one country circle. She pictured herself old and wrinkled, pursuing needlework and music with gnarled hands, still enjoying books, the countryside, and her neighbours. Somewhere along the way, she reasoned, she would have to relinquish the pleasure of riding on horseback. She did not mind the picture at all; she counted herself fortunate indeed.

A noise at the cottage door distracted her. The bell sounded, and Mary moved to the parlour where the swish of Betsy's skirts could be heard in the front hall. Then Betsy, attired in nightcap and robe, announced, “Mrs. Wickham.”

Mary bade Betsy return to bed. “I will care for my sister, thank you, Betsy. Please do not disturb yourself further.” Mary greeted Lydia warmly, but how weak and poor she looked! Her frayed and smudged travel robe hung in an uneven cascade of wrinkled fabric, and her face drooped in exhaustion. “My dear Lydia, what has happened?”

“Hide me, Mary, please. Wickham will not think to look for me here. You let Kitty stay with you at Christmas. Can you not let me stay in the nice room she told me of?”

“You are most welcome to stay here. That is a matter of course. But why?”

“Wickham might enquire at Pemberley or Nottingham, but he does not know this place. And Papa and Mama must not see me like this, or they would never let me go back to him.” She broke down in bitter sobs, and Mary held her close, marvelling at the thinness of her body.

The whole puzzle left her wondering. Did Lydia want Wickham or not? “Where is your trunk?” Lydia could not make herself understood. She talked and cried together. Mary stroked her head. “Please calm yourself, dear. Betsy and Tom will hear you. Your screeching would frighten a wild beast.”

Lydia gulped, found her kerchief, and blew her nose. “If I am a wild beast, I am driven to it. Wickham will be happy enough to see me when I have money. I only hope I can look better by then.”

“We will forget your trunk. Tom can put it in your room tomorrow.” She led Lydia upstairs to the guest room.

“I… I sold all my things to get post fare to Lambton, and I walked from there. There is no trunk.” Lydia brushed her face with her sleeve. “If Wickham looks for me at all, it will only be for money. All he wants me to do is beg, and I am sick of pestering Jane and Lizzy and Mama for money. I am sick of his schemes. Can I stay here until January? That is when Papa gives me money. Wickham will want me back then.” She stumbled over to the large curtained bed and fell onto it.

Mary did not comprehend why Lydia both wished to hide from Wickham and yet to return to him with money. What a strange bond marriage was after all! But how terribly thin Lydia looked! “You may stay as long as you wish, of course. Come, I will find some clean things of my own for you, though they may be short.” But they found that Mary's nightgown, draped around Lydia's taller but thinner frame, reached a suitable length. “But you have grown so thin!” Suddenly Mary felt her delinquent hospitality. “Oh, Lydia, are you hungry?”

“Yes, but I am more tired.” She fell back again onto the bed. “I must sleep or die.”

“Of course. I will find something nourishing to leave for you when you wake.” She gathered rolls and plums from the remains of her supper, then went to the kitchen, filled a pitcher with water, and put it on a tray with a cup of damson wine. She added some oat cakes and two apples to the supper things, and carefully balanced the full tray up the stairs and placed it on the table next to the stoneware basin for washing up. She looked with pity on her sleeping sister whose very existence she had once tried to deny. She shuddered at her unforgivable ignorance.

The following day after breakfast, Lydia recovered a bit of her spark, but Mary still saw how marriage had aged her youngest sister far more than it had done her older sisters. Lydia looked around the comfortable morning room and recognized a floral arrangement Jane had made years ago with pressed petals, now framed and hanging over the small fireplace. “Oh, Mary, how fortunate you are to be living in a place all your own with no husband to spend your money!”

Mary recalled reaching the same conclusion even before contrasting her situation with Lydia's. Still, she had enough reverence for matrimony to recognize her guilt in hiding a wife from her husband. “Are you sure you do not wish to return to your husband? You once loved him very much.”

Lydia sighed. “And I will again if ever he loves me.” Lydia looked off blankly and sighed again, muttering, “Why would any man choose to run off with a girl he did not love?” Mary could not answer her. “Now he seems to like any girl who smiles at him if she has money. And now Darcy,” she spat out the name, “supports his schooling at Oxford, but gives nothing to provide for me!”

“And Wickham accepted such an arrangement? How selfish!”

Lydia shrugged. “Well, he is free now to accept any moneyed woman he likes. And because he likes money, I never have any. He really sent me back to Longbourn, but Papa would either send me back to him or keep me from Wickham forever. I do not wish Papa to know where I am. You must keep it from everyone, Mary.”

Mary did not like to see Lydia so bereft, but what could she do? She rose from the table in the morning room that served as her breakfast room and everyday dining parlour as well. She spoke as heartily as she could. “Let us see what can be done with your travel gown. And we may find something of mine to fit you as well. Indeed, with a few tucks, my things may well fit you, as you are grown so thin.” They went upstairs and found a pinafore dress that fit fairly well on the taller-but-thinner sister.

Lydia laughed mirthlessly. “I never thought I would be glad to wear a grey pinner that fairly hugs my chin. Being a beggar alters my taste.”

Mary searched through her bureau. “You will need a pelisse, a few under things, and boots. If it rains, I can find some pattens for you too.”

“La, those noisy things? Better to just get my boots muddy.” If Lydia's taste was altered, it was not transformed.

“Then you must often need new boots.” Mary frowned at such lack of economy and would have resolved to offer nothing more had not she recalled the previous Sunday's sermon. No, she would not sort the deserving from the undeserving poor and let others regulate the measure of her charity. From the armoire, she brought out her new gown. “Here, Lydia, try this blue muslin. I am no wearer of fashion. It makes me feel like a window in draperies. You must have something to go out in, unless you mean to stay caged in the cottage.” Then the consequences of Lydia's strictures on secrecy dawned on her. “You know, Lydia, as soon as the Darcys return, we must tell them that you have moved in here. Lizzy will find some nice things for you, I daresay.”

Lydia looked up, alarm in her eyes. “But Wickham must not know. They must agree to that.” She sat on Mary's bed, fingering the lovely gown. “Oh, Mary, may I go to church with you Sunday? I have not gone in ever so long, and Kitty says that Mr. Oliver is well worth hearing.”

Mary smiled. “Kitty is greatly partial to Mr. Oliver. But come, by all means.” Mary held up Lydia's lamentable travel gown and decided to take it out to the garden to brush off the dried mud and shake it well before washing. She picked up the matching bonnet from the corner chest as well, though she was at a loss as to how to restore its shape.

While she worked on Lydia's outfit, Betsy fairly ran to her from the kitchen door. “You must not trouble yourself with that, miss. Allow me to repair it.” She took the gown from Mary. “Mr. Darcy would blame me for sure.” She grabbed the bonnet as well. “I can clean and block this too.” Mary gladly relinquished the task she had tackled with more will than ability. As she went to tell Lydia that Betsy would restore her things, Mary caught sight of Pemberley's phaeton approaching. She scrambled up to Lydia, explaining that she would be expected to go with Mrs. Gardiner to Nottingham. Lydia entreated her secrecy with such solemnity that Mary could not refuse.

“Especially at Nottingham, no one must know,” Lydia explained, “because Wickham goes there more freely than to Pemberley.”

Mary hurried down to join Mrs. Gardiner, determined to say nothing of Lydia. Indeed, as they neared Otherfield, with Mrs. Gardiner chatting pleasantly of Jane's healthy good looks yesterday and of her sanguine hopes for an easy birth soon to come, the burden of her secret lifted from Mary, and she turned her thoughts to Jane.