A Match for Mary Bennet (26 page)

In early July, Lydia again held forth on the wonderful state of the cottage for Mary, saying wistfully that if she could have such a charming place for herself, would not her life be beautiful? Mary had not time to reply before the bell sounded and Betsy could be heard going to the door. Lydia slipped quickly upstairs, whispering, “Remember, I am not here!”

It was not a family member, however, but James Stilton, sporting tufts of chin hair and streaky side whiskers. Mary wondered if it was the newest mode of being trifling and silly. She regretted his coming just at this time more than ever. He stood before her smiling assuredly as if conscious of cutting a dash, and when he spoke it was in a deliberately low tone. “Miss Bennet, I come to report having followed your advice. I abjured race tracks and have begun to repay my father.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Mary indifferently. “And what paying position did you undertake?”

It was Stilton's turn to adopt indifference. “That does not matter. I have become what you entreated me to be. Do you not think it unspeakably harsh to refuse me still?”

“Not at all,” answered Mary. “If you have indeed prospered, you no longer have use for me. Continue on that course and the inheritance is yours without burden of marriage.”

Stilton exploded in anger, completely destroying his pose of maturity. “This is preposterous! You are being stubborn and selfish, and you enjoy tormenting me!”

Mary searched for words to make her refusal unmistakable, but the accusation of selfishness, coming as it did right after Lydia's hints of envy, caused her to pause. Supposing she were to go live with Stilton in Nottingham, might Darcy actually allow Lydia to remain in the situation she had come to enjoy? Perhaps the generosity that he had granted to one would extend to a second sister. But could she abide living with Stilton? In many ways, he was even more unsuited to her than Wickham was to Lydia. With some dismay, Mary noted Stilton's expression change to one of smugness, as if her hesitation was promised consent. She hurried to disabuse him of that notion. “Mr. Stilton, I could not possibly marry any man who scoffs at the rites of the church.”

“Oh that,” he spat out dismissively. “What difference does that make? We could be married in church if you like, and you would not be prevented from attending as often as you like. I can pray anywhere; God does not mind.”

“I said nothing of that. It is I who mind. And if I am to attend church alone, it is better to do so here, where I am known and as I am.”

“So it is your comfort alone that matters!”

Again his words dug into the rich soil of Mary's compassion for Lydia, as by habit, Mary applied criticism to herself as deserved. Her father's command came to her rescue. “If truth be told, Mr. Stilton, I cannot marry you even if I wished to.”

Stilton's face tightened in an aggression born of a prize lost. “Why not? You are of age, certainly. And you live here as your own mistress.”

“Still I must have my father's consent.”

“Is that not for me to obtain? I will go to Hertfordshire immediately.”

“No. There is reason for me to write to him first. And I can give you no better answer until I have heard from him. Give me…” She was about to say a fortnight when she recalled the desultory nature of her father's correspondence. “… A month or two. And I promise nothing.”

A puzzled Mr. Stilton—rather than an angry one, for a change—rode back to Nottingham.

The following Sunday after service, Mary came down from the loft to join Lydia. She saw Mr. Oliver finish talking to the departing churchgoers and turn toward the vestry. Mary ventured to detain him to ask his opinion of folks who elect to pray to God alone, rather than in church. “Could such a one remain a Christian?”

Oliver frowned. “I trust this does not mean that you intend to adopt such a course, Miss Bennet?”

“Oh no, sir, never me. I like to attend church, and I seem to need to. But suppose some may feel constrained at services or bored. Might he not pray just as well on his own?” Mary had come to realize that she could not possibly marry Stilton if he was no Christian, not even to provide a home for her sister.

Oliver thought for a while, and Mary wondered if he found the suggestion bizarre.

“And is this someone who, in doing so, is rejecting his inheritance, a birthright of Christianity?”

“I believe his parents are indeed churchgoing Christians.” Mary had only her father's word for this.

Oliver postponed removing his surplice and stole, turned from the vestry door, and directed Mary and Lydia to a bench in the vicarage garden. As he sat down with them, he began, “I would say that, as a theory, the program sounds much better than it turns out in practise. This someone is a friend of yours?”

She thought that over. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“And do you observe him to pray a good deal?”

“No, sir, but I hardly observe him at all.”

Oliver assumed a serious, even a sad, mien. “I know two such men myself, very well. And as with your friend, I do not observe any great tendency to address the God they acknowledge. Perhaps a hermit in a desert may commune with God without benefit of others, but a man of the world finds more and more occupations and fewer and fewer inclinations to think of God, let alone to pray. And if you were to ask what he believes of Jesus, he may well do as my brothers do, simply look uncomfortable and decline to answer. And upon further inquiry I find that this ‘God' in which they believe is less Person than Idea.”

Mary, perplexed and troubled, asked, “How does going to church help?”

Oliver shrugged. “I am not exactly sure. But perhaps any action towards God feeds faith and brings His help. And the presence of others may encourage us to accept grace and reduce our falling into lax habits. What do you think?”

“I suppose that I felt the church's help to my faith as a child at Longbourn, and I never thought to question the practise.” She looked at Lydia for corroboration, but Lydia only paled and turned aside. “Is something the matter?” she whispered, but Lydia did not reply.

As if to avoid noticing, Oliver fixed his eyes on the top of a distant sycamore. “I trust Kympton Saint Giles has supplied some of this for you?”

“Oh yes,” both ladies spoke as one, and Mary added thoughtfully, slowly, “It feeds my faith.”

Oliver grinned. “And so it ought to do.” He paused and gazed at the pine woods. “Worship grows in us secretly as God works. It is not the same as thinking about God, which can become the ridiculous vanity of trying to understand Him.” He looked at them, more at ease. “Are you enjoying your sister's visit?”

Mary started at the word “visit,” then replied, “Yes, very much.” She could not help remembering his deep frown when she had disowned this very sister, and her face felt warm as she cast her eyes down. When she looked up again, she thought she detected silent laughter in his demeanor, and she hoped it contained no mockery. She tried to take Lydia's hand, but Lydia held back. “We must hurry to arrive before Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.”

“Oh, Lambton Saint Mary's service starts later than ours. You should reach Pemberley before they do.” Oliver stood with them and stepped toward the vestry.

Mary took leave of the vicar and hurried to the cottage, sincerely hoping that he understood Mr. Darcy's preference for Lambton. Lydia remained strangely silent during the walk, as indeed she had been with the vicar, though it was not like Lydia to be shy before any young man. Mary tried to interest her in the wildflowers dotting the ground under the pines, but nothing drew her out.

However, as soon as they entered the cottage, Lydia burst out angrily, “How did you know Wickham said that?”

Mary, dumbfounded, asked, “What are you talking about?”

“You know, what you said to the vicar about not going to church.” Lydia's face and tone indicated the hurt of betrayal.

Mary sat down hard on the straight chair in the entry way. “But I never had Wickham in mind at all. Nor did I know aught of his practises. I spoke of a neighbour of Jane's who came here a few days ago. Does Wickham truly feel the same?”

“Yes.” Lydia melted into tears. “Every time I wanted to go to church, he said I must go alone. The only time we ever were together in church was at Saint Clement's in London, when we were married. And I stopped going too.”

Mary stood and put her arm on Lydia's shoulder. “Oh, Liddy. I had no idea.” In her mind the words returned: “The two become one.”

Lydia's sniffles subsided. “Kitty told me how nice it was to go to Kympton with you, sometimes in the loft and sometimes in the congregation. Our Sundays in Hertfordshire came back to me. I had not been to church in ever so long… My faith is even thinner than I was. What can I do?”

She tried to hide her head, but Mary took her face in gentle hands. “But you are doing it. Do not cry. Keep on coming and your Longbourn Sundays will come back to you.” Mary stood back as Lydia dried her face. “They will be back at Pemberley soon, probably with Bingley, and they will look for me. Could you not reveal yourself and come along?”

Lydia shook her head and started for the stairway. “I will be all right.”

Mary called after her, “Betsy and Tom will be gone all day. Whatever they left out for meals, you are welcome to take whenever you wish.” She set off for Pemberley, still unsure whether or not to write to her father the question that burned her conscience.

Mary walked to Pemberley pitying Lydia, always fearful of revealing her whereabouts lest Wickham pursue her, and yet she claimed he did not abuse her. She must soon write her father about Stilton if she hoped to have an answer by messenger. She did not wish to face Mr. Bennet with explanations when he came in August. Yet she harboured misgivings about Stilton above and beyond his strange faith. Was she, as Stilton said, only thinking of her own comfort? She had hated hinting to Stilton that she might relent, but how could Lydia gain the cottage she so praised unless Mary went elsewhere? Already she had come to feel her situation as an occasion of Lydia's envy, a circumstance that could easily lead to quarrels. And much as sisterly compassion urged her to help Lydia, she could not feel they were well suited as lifelong companions. No, she must write to her father tonight, and according to his response, she would cast her lot, even with no guarantee that Lydia would be given the cottage if she left it.

To her surprise, she found that Jane had accompanied Bingley to Pemberley. She looked pale, but her serene smile put Mary at ease. They were all to have a farewell meal with the Gardiners, who were soon leaving for London. Mr. Gardiner said he already missed his fishing, and he vowed to return with the primroses in spring. Mrs. Gardiner admitted that she eagerly looked forward to seeing her children again, and she ate little in her haste for departure. Up Pemberley's impressive, broad, ash-lined avenue came the Gardiner carriage, and Mary exclaimed over its beautiful high polish. “Why, it looks brand new!”

Aunt Gardiner told her Shepard and Mr. Gardiner had spent part of two days sanding and refinishing the wood. “They meant to surprise me, but I came upon them behind the carriage house when I went to pick berries. Now it faces the dusty journey home, and I fear its newness will not survive the ordeal.” Mrs. Gardiner waited for Mr. Gardiner to hand her up, which he did after the many good-byes. Darcy pressed such an abundance of gifts and provisions upon them that their carriage was filled to capacity, though they were but two. They rolled off behind two sturdy horses while the Pemberley party, always loath to see them go, returned to the parlour somewhat quieted. Elizabeth rendered a spirited “Highland Laddie” on the pianoforte and begged Mary to play some lively dances, but the attempt only pointed out the missing Georgiana, who remained another se'nnight in London. They spoke of her then, conjecturing as to the outcome of her new friendship with young David Exbridge. Darcy even allowed that he might be able to part with her to so congenial a young man.

Bingley asked Darcy about the young couple at Kent. “Pray, how did you like the verger of Hunsford? Will you get on well with your cousin-in-law?”

Darcy made a face. “In time, I may get used to him, which is all I can hope for at present.” He touched the tips of his fingers together, bouncing them in mock humility, and he feigned the voice of the sycophantic Witherspoon. “Yes, Reverend Collins, venerable sir. I will attend to it, venerable sir. Oh my, here is the lovely Mrs. Collins, and young Master Lucas, the future vicar of Hunsford, heh, heh.” He went on in his own voice when Elizabeth finally stopped laughing. “And he bows like a bobber on Gardiner's fishing line. But Anne apparently likes him or finds him amusing. I am not sure which.”

“Did she mention marriage?” Jane asked.

“Not even when I teased her,” Elizabeth answered. “She took it good-naturedly, but effectively parried every remark on the subject. I believe our speculation only increased her private amusement.”

Darcy nodded thoughtfully. “Lizzy, what did you make of Anne's recommendation that Mrs. Collins feed her son goose livers? How strange that she, whose health worried all the family, should take to prescribing a diet for a strapping boy like Lucas!”

Elizabeth directed her eyes to the chattering birds outside the window and paused before answering. “You know, at times I felt I was hearing Lady Catherine herself. Perhaps in her childhood her mother had made her eat them.”

“I believe she did. I seem to recall having to eat them myself when I visited Rosings as a child.” Darcy made a grimace of distaste. “I must ask Georgiana if she remembers a similar diet.” Darcy smiled and reached over to rub Lizzy's shoulder.

Elizabeth turned to face him. “That convinces me that my whimsical guess about Anne may not be so far off the mark. What if she lived all those years quietly studying Lady Catherine as if the Lady represented a role that Anne intended to step into one day? Why, she even reminded Mr. Collins of the sixty-four windows in the mansion and of the prodigious fireplace in the upper parlour. Those had to be lines straight from Lady Catherine's repertory, because Collins often quoted them as if it was clever of him to remember.”

Jane broke in gently, observing, “People are such great mysteries. Just when we think we have understood them, a wonderful new aspect shows in them.”

Elizabeth scowled as if “wonderful” did not quite describe the case at hand. She amended her sister's observation by replying, “To be wondered at, perhaps.”