Mary Bennet: A Novella in the Personages of Pride & Prejudice Collection (16 page)

He regarded her with bright eyes.

“But I must caution you, sir,” Mary said, her tone even more serious than before. “In making your proposal to me, you are aligning yourself with a known jilt. I am infamous, you know. Hertfordshire will always remember that I broke my engagement to an honorable suitor and that we outwitted his father. They will believe you the worst of gentlemen, saving my fortune only to abscond with it yourself.”

Mr. Hardcastle shook his head violently, and his grip tightened on her hand. “Damn your dowry,” he stated in a strangely factual matter, as if he had literally sent her money to eternal condemnation. “I have no wish for it. You shall have it all for pin money.”

Mary could not help but feel relief at his offer, for she did not want money to be the impetus behind her marriage.

“I shall agree to such an offer only if you are aware of my intentions for its use,” Mary said.

“What intentions?”

“I shall create a library for us, wherever we shall live. And we shall keep a carriage and some horses, for I despise walking.”

Mr. Randall smiled and stepped closer, his face now only inches from hers. “You shall do with your dowry as you see fit, and I shall draw up the papers.”

“And you shall use your true name?” Mary asked, feeling cheeky.

“Indeed, I shall,” Mr. Hardcastle agreed, “for I am well aware that you would spot such a ploy and punish me.”

Mary smiled at him, and his gaze dropped to her lips. In response, she lowered her lashes, feeling a rush of warmth and uncertainty.

Mary had never imagined what the embrace of a gentleman might feel like, so she had no expectations when Mr. Hardcastle bent, his arms circling her waist, and pulled her closer than propriety must allow. She had not anticipated the scent of him, the manner in which it overwhelmed her senses, or the feel of his cheek against her own.

She found herself to be clutching Mr. Hardcastle’s lapels as her lips fell open in a small gasp.

Encouraged, Mr. Hardcastle groaned and pressed his lips to hers.

Epilogue

[Jane Austen] would, if asked, tell us many little particulars about the subsequent career of some of her people.

In this traditionary way, we learned that…

Mary [Bennet] obtained nothing higher than one of her uncle Philip’s clerks,

and was content to be considered a star in the society of Meriton [sic].

—
James Austen Leigh,
Memoir of Jane Austen

“Did I not tell you that Mr. Hardcastle was the proper gentleman for my Mary?” Mrs. Bennet asked Mrs. Philips.

Mrs. Philips nodded. “Indeed, you did, Sister. You have a talent for matchmaking.”

From her place in her very own sitting room, Mary smiled wryly at her mother and aunt.

“Yes, Mama. You were right. Mr. Hardcastle is the proper gentleman for me.”

Following their marriage, which did not devolve into a contractual dispute, Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle had taken possession of a small house in Meryton. Miss Hardcastle, who remained in her brother’s care, lived with them and kept house for Mary, who was far too busy compiling books for their library to trifle with meal planning and other household endeavors.

Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips were frequent visitors to their home, always bringing with them the freshest gossip.

“You have heard the news about Mr. George Randall, have you not, Mary?” Mrs. Bennet asked.

Mary exchanged a quick glance with Miss Hardcastle, who sat beside her.

“No, indeed. You know I care nothing for gossip. ‘Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles,’” Mary said, deliberately choosing to use a quotation.

Mrs. Bennet’s eyes narrowed. Mrs. Philips, however, intent on her gossip, remained ignorant of the exchange.

“Mr. George Randall has eloped with the daughter of his father’s steward! Mr. John Randall is enraged, of course, but that is nothing new.”

“When did this occur?” Mary asked, utterly unsurprised.

“Some days ago,” Mrs. Philips said. “It is said that he will soon return with his new wife.”

“I imagine the gossips are quite occupied with spreading rumors about what happened between us,” Mary said.

“I am sorry to say it is so,” Mrs. Philips replied. “First, they were content to make conjectures about the broken engagement. Now, they pass time by contemplating the reasons for your suspiciously sudden marriage to Mr. Hardcastle and Mr. Randall’s equally sudden elopement.”

Miss Hardcastle laughed merrily. “Yes, there must be some nefarious motive. Certainly, not love.”

Still rather uncomfortable with her feelings, Mary did not reply. She cared little for gossip whether she heard it from her mother or her aunt, and she abhorred being its focus.

Later that evening, she confronted Mr. Hardcastle with her discomfort. In response, he leaned back in his chair and gave her a quizzical look.

Mary pressed a fingertip to his lips and said, “A wise man does not remind his wife of her former preoccupation with seeking society’s approval. Proverbs, I believe.”

Mr. Hardcastle kissed her finger and then held it in his hands.

“I do not believe that is canonical,” he replied, and then paused to consider her question. Finally, he proclaimed, “We must host a dinner party.”

Mary frowned, sliding her hand from his grasp. “A dinner party? That is the most absurd thing I have heard all day, and I have been subject to my mother’s detailed accounts of Meryton gossip!”

“Absurd? I hardly believe so,” he said, giving her a devious look. “If the gossips enjoy their fiction so much, then let us shock them with some facts. Let us invite the principle players for a meal: your parents, Mr. and Mrs. Philips, Mr. and Mrs. George Randall, and every known gossip in the county. My sister can plan the evening, which will give her much pleasure. She does enjoy a spectacle.”

“I do not see how such an event would quell the gossip about us at all.”

“Oh, it shall not quell the gossip,” he admitted, giving Mary another wicked grin. “If people enjoy creating melodrama where none exists, then let us help them along.”

“You have gone mad,” Mary declared. “You despise dinner parties and social spectacles, and yet you desire to parade about, creating gossip deliberately.”

“Indeed, I do despise dinner parties, but I do so enjoy making fools of the foolish,” he said. “And this is an exercise in honesty and forthrightness, two traits I greatly respect. I am suggesting that we meet our detractors head on and allow them to see the truth. Surely, there is no madness in that.”

Mary mulled over the idea.

“They shall expect a scandal,” she said at length. “But the Randalls and the Hardcastles shall behave charmingly to one another. It shall be a dull affair. The gossips will leave unsatisfied.”

“Quite right, my dear, but people often see what they desire, not what actually exists. Let them interpret the evening to fit their own liking, and let us enjoy the fruits of their foolishness.”

The Hardcastles’ first dinner party became the county’s most sought-after invitation. In the intervening weeks, distant acquaintances paid Mary morning calls, hoping to be extended an offer to join.

Everyone, it seemed, was eager to share a meal with Meryton’s most infamous jilt, the gentleman whose heart she broke, and their new spouses.

Mary could have been offended that she had devolved into a mere curiosity, but after consideration, she realized that her husband had spoken true. Once an opinion is formed in a person’s mind, it can be dismantled only through consistent action. Her words would never convince anyone of her innocence. She must not “protest too much.”

Until the tide of opinion began to shift, Mary might as well make the most of her newfound infamy and solidify her place in society.

And so she plunged wholeheartedly into the escapade.

The dinner party was carried off with great success. Miss Hardcastle’s meal was declared to be the most delicious ever served, and Mr. Hardcastle’s sardonic commentary was recorded as the most humorous ever heard. After the meal, Mary took the opportunity to play her longest, most intricate concerto, which was received with gracious applause and the player declared to be Meryton’s finest musician.

And when at last the guests departed, and Miss Hardcastle had vanished above stairs, Mary found herself in the library with her husband. Books forgotten, he lay with his head in her lap.

“You see, my dear wife,” he said, reaching up to cup her cheek in his palm, “you must never doubt me. People will recount the events of this evening for years to come.”

“Yes, but what shall they say?” Mary wondered, enjoying her husband’s touch.

“It hardly matters,” said he, “for tonight, the clouds have parted, and Meryton sees you, Mary Hardcastle, for the star you have always been.”