A Match for Mary Bennet (27 page)

No sooner were the Gardiners back in London than preparations began for the arrival at Pemberley of Kitty and Mrs. Bennet, who meant to be with Elizabeth in August. Georgiana returned from London and took upon herself frequent visits to Otherfield, bringing their family news to Jane and returning to give Elizabeth tidings of Jane's new baby. Darcy, pleased at his sister's new exuberance, learned a great deal about her stay in London for a change. As was to be expected, she had visited much with the Exbridge family, especially young David. Elizabeth remained restfully confined at home, less from necessity than from her wish to placate Darcy. Mary, though she usually did her needlework with Lizzy, sometimes accompanied Georgiana to Otherfield, learning much more about London than she had ever heard before. Georgiana reported not only her visits to Exeter Exchange, Bond Street, and Sackville, but also gaily recalled art pieces and what David had said about them; ducks and how David fed them; and specific meals, along with some of David's witty sayings during them. Jane also heard Georgiana's amusing tales of London. Often they found Jane in the nursery, and once Beth sang for them a new song she had learned. Georgiana told her she had never heard such a fine concert. She supported this by regaling them with the tale that, while in London, she, Lady Elliott, and David had been so disappointed in the music at a concert, they had left early to watch hangers-on outside a theatre instead. On one occasion, Bingley joined them in the nursery, where he proudly displayed his son, and they saw how tenderly Beth touched “my baby.”

On returning, Mary always stopped at her cottage, saying she wished not to interrupt Georgiana's report to Elizabeth. Mainly she meant to attend to her own concealed guest, though Lydia daily became more comfortable in a routine all her own. Mary had been invited to glean any remaining cherries from Pemberley's orchard, and this she did on several early mornings, as Lydia was particularly fond of cherries for breakfast. As cherries became difficult to find, Mary explored the wilder plots behind the carriage house as Mrs. Gardiner had done. She discovered raspberries to add to the breakfast board. Not used to such activities, Mary had not thought to use gloves, and she soon found her hands dirty and her arms scratched almost as badly as when she had once, as a child at Longbourn, caught hold of a squirrel. However, she felt rewarded for her berry picking as Lydia's spare form filled out. Indeed, by late July, Lydia appeared less drawn and even younger. Mary, however, when she examined herself in the glass, saw that she looked older. Soon she would be twenty-four, older than Jane or Lizzy when they married, and old indeed compared to the barely twenty-year-old Lydia. Each fine morning, Mary placed her basket of fruit inside the kitchen door for Betsy to wash and put out with a pot of cream, which she said was for Mary's return after riding. Grey Dawn was always saddled and held ready for her by the kind Mr. Watts, who had come to be quite friendly since his return from Duxford.

On one morning's ride, Mary determined to search for wild strawberries, and finding none, she rode a more daring path, ducking her way through thin groves to find dense undergrowth. She knew that her father had received her letter by then, and she started to wonder about his reaction, sometimes sorry she had written it. This fine life might be lost to her forever; and if her father had guessed correctly about Stilton, soon she would be poor, even destitute. She came out of her reverie only to discover that she had entered a small sheltered lea she had not previously discovered. She spied an artist at his easel at the far end of the grass, and she meant to skirt the area, leaving him undisturbed, but he turned at the sound of the horse and waved to her. She reined in suddenly when she recognized Mr. Oliver. “I did not realize that you painted!” she called to him. She glanced at the canvas, which she supposed would be a landscape of the pleasant area, but the work appeared rather to be a sea of faces. She tried to keep her eyes off it, tried to concentrate on Oliver's greeting, but she missed much of that.

Noting her interest, Oliver took the canvas from the easel and held it up to her. “It is just my early Tuesday hobby, keeping me from intruding too soon on Pemberley's library. I think this one is almost finished. What do you think?”

Mary, perched on Grey Dawn, studied the faces while the horse bent to the tufts of grass. The mix of men, women, and children in differing attitudes seemed somehow united in a shared tranquility. Fascinated, she asked, “Are they in heaven?”

Oliver frowned, turned it to his own gaze, and countered, “In heaven? Why?”

Sure she had got it all wrong, Mary apologised. “I thought of your sermon on prayer as the language of heaven. If prayer could show in a face, those faces…” She could not finish. Grey Dawn, searching for more grass, jogged her from the painting, and she looked to grab the reins and move away. At any rate, she could not express what she meant.

Oliver, looking pleased, moved ahead with the horse. “You flatter me. I call it ‘The Blessing' because it represents my view of the congregation as I give the blessing. At least, that is how I recall it.”

Mary found an excuse for her blunder. “Oh, I never see the people from that angle. From the loft, I see shapes of bonnet crowns, heads of hair, bald heads with fringes of hair, little girls pulling at bonnet strings, occasional noses, but no faces unless a baby looks up from a father's shoulder.”

Oliver laughed. “But how well you expressed the feeling I intended, even so. Every time I give the blessing I feel bathed in peace, and I count myself the more blessed.” He studied the canvas again. “Now I fear dabbing any more may destroy the effect. I will leave those corner faces as they are, undelineated.”

Mary started at his word, thinking “undelineated” described her own future once again. She thought of something she had heard the vicar say. “Mr. Oliver, why did you say that married life presents the best picture of God on earth? Surely, as God is spiritual and good, one who attempts to live as angels do would present such a picture?”

Oliver turned his back to her as he set the painting back on the easel. Then he slowly faced her. “Yes, God is pure spirit, and the angels are that. But God is also One and fruitful. So an ideal marriage, where two spiritual persons become one, can be fruitful and good, and they certainly represent God's image as He meant us to do.”

Mary let that thought hearten her, in the event that her father should choose to let her marry. She still half hoped he would refuse, and she meant to pray about it, hoping she could accept God's will no matter what the decision. Her restless horse bent to the grass again, and Oliver had turned to collect his brushes and paints, so she called good day to him and pulled Grey Dawn around to where they had entered these woods, picking her way back to the stables. Then she hurried to make sure Lydia needed nothing for the day.

Having urged Lydia to enjoy the fine day in the garden, Mary went to Pemberley, visited a bit with Elizabeth in her sitting room, and made her way through the great hall to the library balcony. She had lately discovered a translation of
The Odyssey
that amazed her. Pagans of antiquity struck her as more religious in a superstitious sort of way than present-day Christians of the Stilton type. When she glanced down at the fireplace area, however, and saw no one below, it occurred to her to look into the books of Saint Augustine's works. She had long meant to find the treatise on the Trinity, hoping to become one of those readers for whom the great Saint Augustine prayed. She put aside
The Odyssey
until later and made her way down the ladder-like stairway at the end of the balcony. At least she might learn what was so amusing about that great saint. Reaching the floor, she hurried over to the matching set of leather-bound volumes and pulled one down. Opening it, she let out a small cry of dismay and disappointment, for it was not in English, nor even in French. She could not make out a word of it. Mr. Oliver, standing beneath the balcony and shadowed by it, said softly, “Is something amiss?”

“Oh, I did not see you.” She hurriedly closed the large book. “I thought to learn somewhat of Saint Augustine, whose writings made you laugh, but I can make nothing of this. However did you read it?” She frowned and placed the book carefully back in its place.

Oliver slipped the work he had been studying onto a table and came nearer. “I do read some Latin. If you were curious, why did you never ask?”

“I did not wish to bother you, and it was Kitty you invited to ask about it.”

“But it is no bother.” His finger went to his face, brushing the moustache and flattening it. “Let me see, what did I find amusing? Certainly not all of it, and in fact, it may have been his utter seriousness that made me laugh at his lighter moments.” After some thought, he told her of Augustine's letter to a pagan magistrate who had demanded that the Bishop restore a statue, which some Christians had destroyed, and for which they paid with their lives. Augustine's letter, all politeness, described in detail the enormous Hercules he would erect, using the finest materials and workmanship. Then Oliver paused. “The last line of his letter was ‘Work will begin on it just as soon as you restore to life the sixty Christians you had slain.'”

Mary laughed. “I never thought of a great saint as humourous.”

“A great saint is a great man. That includes some humour, I hope.” He sat down at the table where Mary had taken a seat. “Once Augustine, his mother Monica, and some friends retreated to a house at Cassiacum, and Monica criticized one of his friends for singing hymns while using the latrine. Augustine teased her, saying, ‘If he had been locked in there, could he not pray to be released?'”

Mary smiled politely at this, though she secretly sympathized with Monica, who knew what was fitting and proper.

Oliver gave Mary a few more instances, ending with the saint's insistence that all creation is good, but he admitted ignorance as to how demons could be so. “Finally, he concluded that demons could be good as sponges are, soaking up evil so that the worst of it will not soil us.”

Mary listened, fascinated. “And you understood this even in Latin?”

The awe in her tone amused him. “But I am afraid my schooling in Latin helps very little in tackling that.” He pointed to the large tome he had placed on the far table. “I was foolish enough to believe that Latin would enable me to struggle through Dante's Italian. I find myself getting only one word in three or four—a devilishly slow work. But then,” he shrugged, “it is, after all, the
Inferno
. If I ever make it to
Paradiso,
the reading may be easier.”

Mary could not help admiring such scholarship. “I learned a bit of French once, but I have forgotten most of it. How wonderful it must be to read many languages!”

“Thank you. Many persons I know regard it a useless enough accomplishment. It may well be, but I enjoy books in any language.”

Mary excused herself then to return to the English language books on the balcony, but she had barely settled back into the world of Odysseus when Georgiana entered the library below looking for her. Mr. Oliver pointed to the balcony, and Georgiana climbed up as Mary, hearing her, left the harrowing adventure with Cyclops, closed and shelved the book, and joined Georgiana near the stairway. Georgiana, flushed with excitement, said as soon as she took breath, “Mary, I beg you to help me hostess Elizabeth's at-home today.” Georgiana showed the easy smile she had seemed to learn recently in London. Lizzy had fitly described the new Georgiana as both bubbly and assured, and both younger and more mature than in her melancholy days. Her breathing now normal, Georgiana went on, “I am expecting Lady Elliott and some others from London, and I fear Elizabeth's regular guests may be neglected.”

Mary responded with a knowing smile. “You are, perhaps, expecting the Exbridges?”

Georgiana's eyes lowered even as her colour heightened. “Yes, David and his mother and sister come today with Lord Exbridge and Lady Elliott. The family returns to the lord's country estate, and Lady Elliott will pay a long visit with them.”

They walked together through the large hall to a stairway they could descend together. Mary took her hand. “You have found your lost mansion of peace and your own peace as well, have you not?”

“I have indeed. And never again will I play that song so wistfully. If I had not seen the London home of Lord Exbridge, those childhood years spent with Lady Catherine would haunt me still. I hope you will come and meet them all. Lady Elliott tells me how she enjoyed travelling with you.” Georgiana held the door to the parlour and let Mary precede her.

As she entered, Mary teased, “Some day, you must tell me your own opinion of Bath. Lady Elliott's view was not promising.”

A number of Elizabeth's neighbours chatted with Mrs. Reynolds. There was indeed something of a Gillray cartoon in Miss Johnstone's profile, Mary realized anew. That ample lady sat calmly, and too smugly, near the sumptuous tea table. As Mary passed Mrs. Reynolds, a small folded paper glided unobtrusively from Mrs. Reynolds's hand to Mary's. While Georgiana greeted Miss Johnstone effusively, Mary glanced at the open paper and read “seal ring”—presumably the item of the day and the reason for the smug look. Delia announced, “Lady Elliott and party,” but Mary knew that in the excitement she must watch carefully for Miss Johnstone's move to depart. She was able to greet Lady Elliott with her eyes and briefly admire the stately Lord Exbridge looking hale and walking with lively step. Martha Exbridge, with shining smile and plump figure, was the very picture of Elizabeth's characterization as motherly. While Georgiana greeted each of the newcomers, Mary kept watch on Miss Johnstone, who sat quietly, looking very pink and showing no sign of leaving. Mary quickly acknowledged introductions, as Mrs. Reynolds assisted with the tea things. Martha and Lord Exbridge declined Georgiana's offer of a tour of Pemberley, but young David, smiling and handsome, urged his timid young sister to accept, and after tea, the two followed Georgiana out.

Darcy, having learned of his noble visitors, arrived to greet Lord Exbridge. “I see my sister has taken charge of your grandchildren.”

Lord Exbridge chuckled. “I fear it is rather my grandson who wishes to take charge of your sister. Never have I seen two young persons so quickly smitten. Perhaps they have spent sixteen years searching for each other.”

“It seems so,” agreed Darcy. “Georgiana arrived home with a new sparkle, to be sure. We are indebted to you.” His glance included Martha and Lady Elliott in his thanks. “You, sir, are looking amazingly fit after your journey. I trust my eyes do not deceive me.”

Exbridge smiled. “Actually, we spent the night at the Lambton Inn. It was all I could manage to keep young David from a midnight visit to his lady love.” He helped himself to a plum from the proffered basket. “I trust David may be pried away in an hour or two. We mean to spend the night at Foxbridge. The servants have prepared the manor for us.”

“We are delighted to have you again in the neighbourhood, sir.” Darcy's face showed his pleasure. “Please favour us often with your presence at Pemberley.”

The lord examined with approval the plum he had sampled. “You have, I see, kept up your father's fine orchards.”

“I hope I have neglected nothing of what my father built up.”

A cloud settled momentarily on the old lord's countenance. “It is a fine thing when a son can show such deference to his father's memory.”

Fearing the man's renewed melancholy, Darcy hastened to add, “Or a grandson.”

Mary drew her gaze from the kindly, white-haired lord as Miss Johnstone slipped quietly to the door. She followed immediately, and Mrs. Reynolds again took over duties at the tea table, assisted by the alert Martha Exbridge. In the hallway, Mary overtook her departing neighbour who waited there for her carriage. “The signet ring, if you please, Miss Johnstone.”

A brazen and angry expression flitted across the wide, flushed face of the compulsive guest. “She really should never have been mistress of Pemberley.” Then she reached into her reticule and slowly extruded the large ring. “It might have been mine, you know.”

“Of course, but as it is not, we must return it.” Mary took it from her and saw the lady out with forced cordiality, knowing that Elizabeth's pity would demand it. Afterward, she stepped into the side parlour to replace the ring in Darcy's desk. When she again reached the large parlour, the young guests had returned and were being introduced to the happily exclaiming local gentry who had just learned that Foxbridge was to be reopened. Mary was pleased that Lady Elliott was also well received by them. Darcy told them all that he would be expecting them at Pemberley for the Christmas ball.

Young David declared his approval of the fine pianoforte in the music room. “And Miss Georgiana played and sang for us the song Grandma used to sing. You would have loved it!”

As Lord Exbridge's eyes watered, Darcy hurriedly thanked him for interceding with the prince regent. “I have heard from Sir Darcy Fitzwilliam, who was overwhelmed at the unexpected honour, and I know such early results tell us how highly you are regarded at court.” Lord Exbridge waved away the compliment. Mary noted that Darcy did not mention the Lady for whom the title had been sought. She was glad of it, for that seemed a pettiness that did not accord with so stately a man.

Darcy ordered dinner served in the ballroom that evening so that Elizabeth could attend and receive her guests. Mary reluctantly declined the invitation to join them; she would dearly love to have remained in Pemberley, now ringing with hearty laughter as festive as that of Christmas, but she retired to the cottage feeling that she had much to tell Lydia which may tempt her sister to shed the secrecy that Mary so abhorred.