Mary Bennet: A Novella in the Personages of Pride & Prejudice Collection (7 page)

If Mr. Hardcastle was accurate in his observation that Mary displayed her intelligence and accomplishments immodestly, then she had failed herself and her family in the most horrific manner possible.

Mary slammed that book closed as well and buried her face in her palms. Everything contradicted everything else, and she simply did not know what to do.

Against her better judgment, Mary went to her mother’s bedchamber and tapped at the door.

“Who is there?” Mrs. Bennet cried as if she feared the house might have been overtaken by barbarians.

“It is me, Mama,” Mary said with a sigh.

“Mary? Do come inside, and stop that infernal tapping. It is ever so taxing on my poor nerves.”

Mary rolled her eyes, regretting her decision to seek her mother’s counsel, but she entered anyway.

Mrs. Bennet reclined on the bed in a lacy white gown and cap. Encircled by pillows, she all but disappeared amid the bed linens. She raised sharp blue eyes to her daughter and took in her disheveled appearance and red-rimmed eyes.

“Is something the matter, Mary?” she asked, her voice softer.

At her mother’s unexpected concern, tears threatened to spill down Mary’s cheeks.

“What is it, my dear?” Mrs. Bennet asked, truly concerned.

Mary edged closer to the bed and sat gently upon it. “Ever since Mr. Darcy made his offer of a dowry, I have felt unsettled. I have never before had suitors, and I fear that I might make a mistake. I do not want to disappoint you, Mama.”

Or myself
, she added internally.

Mrs. Bennet laid a consoling hand on Mary’s arm. Surprised at the uncharacteristically maternal gesture, Mary stared mutely at her mother’s fingertips.

“You think far too much,” Mrs. Bennet declared. “I can see that you have turned this matter over and over in your poor mind. Too much thinking results in nothing but damage. Why, your eyes are red and your skin is sallow. If you ponder this much longer, you will be quite as homely as Charlotte Lucas.”

Mary did not bother reminding her mother that homely Charlotte had lately married.

They sat in silence as Mrs. Bennet continued to stroke her arm.

“Shall I tell you what to think?” Mrs. Bennet asked at length.

For once, Mary thought it might be nice to hear her mother’s advice. She nodded.

“I too have given the matter of your dowry a great deal of thought, my dear, and I believe that Mr. Randall is the prize you must seek.”

“Mr. Randall?” Mary repeated in surprise.

“Yes, Mr. George Randall. He is the perfect gentleman. As he is the only son of a widower, you will have no mother-in-law to trouble you. And he is the heir to the large estate of Ashworth.”

Mrs. Bennet squeezed Mary’s arm with obvious excitement. She had briefly fantasized about purchasing Ashworth as a residence for Lydia after her scandalous marriage to Mr. Wickham, but that was impossible for ever so many reasons, chief among them the fact that the property was not for sale.

But perhaps a Bennet’s becoming the mistress of Ashworth was no longer impossible.

Mary considered the idea and shrugged. She might very well be happy as mistress of Ashworth. By all accounts, it was a fine property with a well-stocked library. The house was situated at a reasonable distance from Meryton and Longbourn, making it possible to remain near her parents.

As to Mr. George Randall himself, however, Mary was less certain. She knew little of him except what she had heard from the local gossips.

It was said that the elder Mr. Randall—Mr. John Randall—had been quite the romantic. He had fallen in love with and consequently married a rich, young French woman. Alas, proximity often makes enemies of lovers. That seemed to be the case with Mr. John Randall and his new bride. Upon his acquiring Ashworth and setting her up as its mistress, Mr. Randall promptly fell out of love with her.

Still, they managed to conceive a son, whom Mrs. Randall insisted be called by her decidedly French surname: Beauharnais.

Much to Mr. Randall’s distress, with the advent of the Napoleonic Wars came the obvious conundrum: could the son of a British gentleman be called by the same name as Napoleon’s mistress? Would not his family be called out as French sympathizers? Or worse?

Fortunately for Mr. Randall, he was only required to endure the offensive name for the space of a few years. Upon his wife’s death, he had absolutely forbidden anyone ever pronouncing his son’s Christian name again.

Instead, he began calling the boy George after none other than the British king himself.

Having lost all faith in both love and the institution of marriage, Mr. Randall always kept young George well clear of the local young ladies.

“Have you not listened to a word your aunt and I have spoken this week?” Mrs. Bennet asked, interrupting Mary’s musings on the Randall family. “Mr. Randall has been our constant subject. His estate alone, Mary! Think of it. And think of what Lady Lucas will say when she hears that my daughter is mistress of Ashworth, the finest house in the county! Oh, she may peer about Longbourn, awaiting your father’s death, but I shall have the finest house in the whole county.”

“You believe Mr. Randall to be a practical choice for a husband?” Mary asked.

Her mother’s response was of great importance to her, for she simply could not trust her own judgment, not when it was clouded by foolish sentimentality.

Though her mother was flighty and often crass, Mary trusted that she wanted the best for all of her daughters. And in a rather roundabout way, she had successfully predicted matches between the two eldest girls with the richest gentlemen in the county. Lizzie and Jane were happy.

Mary would simply bow to her mother’s decision, for it was far easier than making one of her own.

“Indeed, I do,” Mrs. Bennet said, squeezing her daughter’s arm gently.

“Then, I shall do my best to win him.”

And to forget Mr. Hardcastle and her foolish heart’s traitorous longing for him.

Nine

The drive to Mrs. Philips’s house for the dinner party seemed shorter than usual. Dusk washed the world in muted tones, and even the dirty streets of Meryton took on a lovely somber appearance. Shops that had bustled with life hours earlier were now shut up tight, and the street vendors had returned to their places, wherever they might be.

The Philipses’ home, lit with the glow of candlelight, provided a beacon that drew the Bennets’ carriage onward, and soon, Mary and her parents were within the walls of the familiar dwelling.

Only it was not so familiar now. Candle flames danced on tabletops and wall sconces, and perhaps a dozen people filled the small, cluttered space. Mary wondered that they could all draw breath properly. She had expected a more intimate party, but in the confines of the chamber, the group appeared very large indeed.

“Has she invited the whole town?” Mary whispered to her mother.

“I do believe she has!” Mrs. Bennet trilled, merrily pulling her daughter into the largest group of people in the drawing room.

“It is all too much for me,” Mr. Bennet said, deadpan. Then he faced Mary and offered her a gentle smile. “Remember what I told you, my dear. Choose wisely.”

He straightened and looked about the room with vague disgust. “Now, I must seek out your uncle’s good wine.”

“Oh, Mr. Bennet!” his wife said. “You cannot leave us.”

Finding that her husband had already retreated, Mrs. Bennet spoke again to Mary, her mind already back on her goals. “This is a fine way for you to make your entrance to the marriage mart. So many rich young men…and there is your prize!”

Mary stopped cold and looked in the direction her mother indicated.

Mr. George Randall stood beside his father. The younger was of average stature, though his mass of curly blond hair made him appear taller. He looked gentlemanly enough: handsome, well dressed, and well coiffed. He spoke with Mr. and Mrs. Philips whilst his father, Mr. John Randall, loomed behind him. The elder Randall was stern and stoic, two traits of which Mary heartily approved. She looked again to the son, her intended if Mrs. Bennet had her way. The sight of him drew no particular feeling from Mary.

Relieved, Mary smiled at her mother.

“You see! I knew you would approve of my selection,” Mrs. Bennet whispered, having misinterpreted Mary’s smile. “Let us meet your future husband.”

Dragging Mary behind, Mrs. Bennet nudged her way toward Mrs. Philips.

With each step, Mary’s feet turned increasingly leaden. Her mother’s intentions must be clear to anyone who observed their movements.

Mary surveyed the room and was cowed by the realization that she and her mother held the focus of the entire party. Though every guest feigned disinterest, they all continued to cast them sidelong glances.

They knew what Mrs. Bennet was about.

Of course, this would be the case. Her mother had trumpeted the news of Mary’s dowry in the streets of Meryton, so everyone knew this gathering was meant to dispose of that money—and Mary herself—to one fortunate gentleman.

Determined to ignore her feelings of embarrassment, Mary raised her chin slightly higher. And there, standing taller than the rest of the crowd, was Mr. Hardcastle. The unsteady candlelight cast quavering shadows across his sharp features. He did not play at coy, sidelong glances. No, his gaze was fastened upon Mary Bennet, and then he smiled with a mixture of understanding and amusement.

He empathized with her embarrassment. After all, his sister was just as confirmed a matchmaker as Mrs. Bennet. He understood.

Mary’s heart fluttered, and joy washed through her.

Immediately, she chastised herself.

Resolved as she was to ignore her feelings and obey her practical mind, she ought not care that Mr. Hardcastle had come or that he understood her feelings. She should not notice how he seemed to see into her very soul from across the room. She should not feel anything at all for him.

She was here to win Mr. Randall. He was the practical choice. He would please her family. He would gain her a large estate and library.

Mary tore her gaze away from Mr. Hardcastle and vowed to avoid him for the duration of the evening if she possibly could.

She pinned her focus to her mother, who had managed to set them up at a proper distance from Mrs. Philips and waited for their hostess to invite them to join their conversation with the Randalls.

“Ah,” Mrs. Philips said, opening the circle to include Mrs. Bennet and Mary. “Here is Miss Bennet now.”

Mrs. Bennet pushed Mary forward and the introductions were made.

The gentlemen bowed, the ladies curtsied, and the youngest of the group studied each other while pretending not to be so engaged.

Now that she could look upon Mr. Randall more closely, she found that he was a well-looking gentleman. His dark eyes were serious, and to Mary’s great relief, they did not elicit any sort of feeling within her heart.

Lack of feeling was a comfort.

Mary shifted her feet, wondering what she ought to say, but Mrs. Bennet found her voice first. Much to Mary’s dismay, her mother addressed the elder Mr. Randall with a good deal too much flippancy in her voice. “Oh, Mr. Randall, we are ever so grateful that you have joined our little party tonight.”

Mr. Randall made a grunting sound in the back of his throat. “Yes, well, it is the sort of evening that must be endured.”

“Endured? What a good joke!” Mrs. Bennet said, giggling. “An evening in
our
company is not something that must be endured. Is not that true, Mary?”

Mary offered a half-hearted smile at the elder Mr. Randall, who only grunted again.

“Miss Bennet,” the younger Mr. Randall said, abruptly taking a step nearer to Mary and blocking off her view of his father. “I hope you will allow me to escort you to dinner.”

Mary regarded the gentleman. He seemed just as eager to end the awkward exchange as she was. And the only method for halting the contact between Mr. Randall and Mrs. Bennet was to assure both parents that the match was well underway.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, giving him a conspiratorial smile. “It is very kind of you to offer.”