Mary Bennet: A Novella in the Personages of Pride & Prejudice Collection (3 page)

For both their sakes, she must do something to divert her relations, for she could not bear one more ill-concealed reference to matrimonial hopes. Caring only to ease the tension in the room, Mary said the first thing that came to mind: “‘If a man does not make new acquaintances as he advances through life, he will soon find himself alone. A man should keep his friendships in constant repair.’”

Mrs. Bennet expelled a loud sigh, but Mary could not regret her error, for at least the horrid innuendo ceased.

“Ah,” Mr. Hardcastle said, tipping his head to the side. “You lay upon us a quotation from the brilliant Dr. Johnson.”

Mary’s lips parted in shock, and she nodded.

“I have always preferred to exercise another of his dicta: ‘If you are idle, be not solitary; if you are solitary, be not idle.’”

Mary’s heart clenched and then accelerated, thumping with uncharacteristic ardor in her chest. Rarely had any person, be it man or lady, returned her quotation for quotation.

Her head suddenly felt light, as if she had inhaled the vapors of her mother’s laudanum. She very nearly giggled.

Shocked by her own reaction, Mary stared at Mr. Hardcastle. He returned her gaze, a small smile playing about his lips.

“Speaking of idleness,” Mr. Philips interrupted, “I fear Mr. Hardcastle and I may not stay for tea as promised. We have a matter of some urgency to attend. We must be off even now. I do apologize.”

Mr. Hardcastle’s smile turned regretful, and Mary forced herself to look away.

“Oh, Mr. Philips!” Mrs. Bennet protested. “Your laws and such can wait, surely!”

Mr. Hardcastle turned to Mrs. Bennet and gave her a gracious smile. “‘We are time’s subjects, and time bids be gone.’”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Mrs. Bennet demanded, looking to Mrs. Philips for clarity.

Her aunt only shrugged.

“Shakespeare,” Mary said softly to her mother. “He is quoting
Henry the Fourth
.”

Mr. Hardcastle smiled fully at Mary. His mischievous eyes conveyed his amusement at Mrs. Bennet’s reaction.

“What is it that Shakespeare says about lawyers?” Mrs. Philips asked, embracing the quotation game. “I can never seem to recall a passage when it is called for. I have not Mary’s talent for it.”

Mary’s eyes flew to Mr. Hardcastle’s as an utterly inappropriate quotation leapt to her lips, but she dared not speak it. She flushed and looked away.

To her great surprise, Mr. Hardcastle spoke it for her. “‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’”

While the other ladies in the room went about making half-hearted protests, Mary returned Mr. Hardcastle’s smile with a genuine smile of her own. She desired nothing more than to continue her conversation with him. She wanted to know everything about him. She wanted to make those blue eyes look upon her—only her.

Her heart raced, and her breathing was shallow.

Mary paled as she realized that she—Mary Bennet—was experiencing symptoms of romantic desire. Lust.

With terribly clarity, Mary comprehended the reasons that women were warned to guard against these violent romantic fancies.

No good could come of such wanton feelings.

Four

Mrs. Bennet remained mercifully silent on the return to Longbourn, offering Mary an opportunity to reflect on all that had happened over the course of the morning. Mary stared out the coach window, but her thoughts occupied her so wholly that she did not notice when the town gave way to the beauty of the countryside.

As she had predicted, the morning indeed proved to be a disaster. And she had made her prognostication when she believed the worst development of the day was her newfound knowledge that her conversation was perceived as moralizing.

It was much worse. Her meeting with the Hardcastle siblings yielded far more dire consequences than mere awkward conversation.

Her reaction to Mr. Hardcastle resulted in a harrowing realization: Mary Bennet was capable of sentimentality.

How very humiliating a fact to discover!

The gentleman uttered one or two fine quotations, and what had Mary done? She had blushed and gawked at him just as Kitty or Lydia did when they encountered a gaggle of handsome officers.

Why, Mary might as well have giggled and swooned too.

She crossed her arms and hunched forward, still inattentive to the passing scenery. Instead, her mind’s eye conjured Mr. Hardcastle’s face as she attempted to discover the reasons for her reaction to him. Certainly, his features were not classically handsome, so she could not credit his appearance. They had only just been introduced and, therefore, held little conversation, so she could not claim that she truly knew his mind or character. Why then could she not be indifferent to him?

Mary stomped her foot on the coach floor, eliciting a questioning glance from Mrs. Bennet. Mary ignored her.

Her situation was unacceptable.

Mary Bennet refused to be ruled by her feelings. Such sentiments denoted a weakness of mind and a temptation toward lust and sin. Was it not said that “violent love cannot subsist, at least cannot be expressed, for any time together, on both sides, otherwise the certain consequence however concealed, is satiety and disgust”?

Lydia, her flesh-and-blood relation, had fallen victim to such unrestrained emotion.

Love claimed Elizabeth and Jane amongst its victims as well. They had not suffered to the same degree as Lydia; however, they had the good sense to fall in love with wealthy gentlemen.

Though Mary had not believed it until that very day, heredity made it probable that she would follow her sisters’ course.

Alas, Mr. Hardcastle was not wealthy. He was a solicitor, a tradesman. As such, he was hardly a more suitable mate than Mr. Wickham.

Mary’s eyelids slid shut, and she shook her head.

Turmoil awaited her if she gave way to her feelings. That much was certain. She intended to be guided by pure reason.

But, she reasoned, was not this match made and thus sanctioned by her mother?

Was not marrying according to her parents’ wishes her duty to God?

Why, Mary ought to be thankful that she liked the chosen gentleman.

Perhaps this was the best of all possible outcomes.

Tenderness for her husband might be a fine thing, a thing for which she had never dared hope.

Why should Mary not indulge herself in a bit of fancy and romance, especially if it was sanctioned by her own family?

She would be following God’s commandment to honor her father and mother. In the process of pleasing her family and honoring the Lord, she would secure her future; she could safely indulge in a bit—just a bit—of harmless sentimentality.

A grin spread across her lips as the coach ground to a halt in front of Longbourn.

Yes, everyone would be pleased, she decided as she leapt out of the carriage.

Mrs. Bennet’s silence could be contained no longer than it took for her to cross the threshold of Longbourn.

“Why do you not mind me, Mary?” she demanded as she tossed her pelisse from her shoulders. The garment would have fallen to the floor had Hill, their housekeeper, not been there to prevent it.

“I did just as you asked, Mama,” Mary protested, surprised out of her pleasant reverie. “I did not moralize, and I spoke of pretty subjects.”

“But the quotations! What could you have been thinking? No one wants to have entire novels quoted to them upon first acquaintance.”

“I do not read novels!” Mary insisted as she removed her outerwear and handed it neatly to Hill. “And I did not quote copious amounts of material. Besides, Mr. Hardcastle offered quotations of his own.”

Mrs. Bennet groaned and then blustered toward the sitting room.

“Tea please, Hill! I am terribly parched after such a long, dusty drive. Mary! Come and sit with me.”

From her place in the hallway, Mary gazed at the stairs with longing, but she reminded herself that being noticed had always been her fondest wish and that she ought to appreciate her mother’s attentions, frustrating as they could be.

After all, Mrs. Bennet had never before looked upon her middle daughter with an eye toward making a match, and Mary knew she should feel honored. She followed her mother to the cozy room, but she felt too agitated to sit. Instead, she paced beside the window.

“I must admit, however,” Mrs. Bennet said as if their conversation had not been interrupted, “that Mr. Hardcastle seemed to have just as many useless quotations stored away in his head as you do. Perhaps you have done well in spite of everything.”

Mrs. Bennet gave Mary a vibrant smile, but Mary’s emotions were too unsettled for her to bask in her mother’s praise.

“I confess—” Mary stopped her pacing and looked away from her mother as she began her admission. “I confess that I like Mr. Hardcastle.”

Spoken aloud, Mary’s sentiments sounded even odder than they had in the privacy of her thoughts. Feeling every bit a fool for revealing the truth of her feelings, she awaited her mother’s reaction.

“Of course, you like him,” Mrs. Bennet cooed. “Just as I knew you would. A mother is always right.”

Mrs. Bennet did not comprehend the enormity of what Mary had just revealed.

“Now,” Mrs. Bennet murmured as if Mary had quit the chamber entirely, “I must construct a method of bringing the two together. If only Mr. Hardcastle had been able to stay to tea, he might have proposed already!”

“Mama,” Mary said softly, drawing her mother’s notice once again. “Why did you not tell me the purpose of this morning’s call? Perhaps if I had been aware that you intended Mr. Hardcastle as a match, I might have better prepared myself.”

Mrs. Bennet drew her hand over her heart, and her face grew serious. “You know me, Mary. I am not the presumptuous sort. I had no notion of actually making a match. Your aunt and I had little idea that you might do so well with him.”

Mary turned to face the window as she sorted out her mother’s confusing messages. Somehow Mrs. Bennet had both known the match would work and believed that Mary would do something to ruin it.

With her back safely to her mother, she rolled her eyes in a most juvenile manner. That was her sole act of revolt, but it felt delightful.

Behind her, the door opened, startling the sarcastic expression from Mary’s face. She turned to find that Hill had entered the room carrying a tea service. She set it on the table before Mrs. Bennet.

“A letter from Mrs. Darcy arrived in your absence,” Hill said, offering the missive to Mrs. Bennet on a small silver plate. “Mr. Bennet has asked me to deliver it to your hand.”

“Oh! How wonderful,” Mrs. Bennet cried, eagerly reaching for the letter. “My dear, rich Lizzie! Although I do not like to boast about her wealth….”

Mrs. Bennet forgot Mary, Mr. Hardcastle, and her parching thirst in favor of the correspondence, which she unfolded immediately. Hill poured two cups of tea, crossed the room to give one to Mary, and then departed.

Mary sipped her beverage, drawing solace from its warmth and rich flavor, and listened as her mother began to read.

Rather than sharing the entire contents of the letter, Mrs. Bennet treated Mary to random words and phrases.

From what Mary could discern, Lizzie and her husband were well. Kitty had settled charmingly at Pemberley and enjoyed society in that county.

“Oh!” Mrs. Bennet gasped. “And here is some news you will want to hear, Mary!”

With her mind still preoccupied with the events of the morning, Mary tried to muster some curiosity about her sister’s news. Perhaps Lizzie was soon to be a mother. It was the natural progression.

“Mr. Darcy has offered to settle a large dowry upon Kitty!” Mrs. Bennet paused and shrieked. “Ten thousand pounds! Ten thousand!”

Mary’s ears ached at the sound of her mother’s delight.

“Imagine it, Mary!” Mrs. Bennet began to fan herself and giggle convulsively. “Now, not only shall Kitty be in the path of rich men, but she shall have an inducement to draw them in.”

Mary could hardly figure how that news was to interest her. An unexpected benefit for one of her sisters was neither new nor surprising. They always received offers of holidays and travel and money while Mary sat at home.