Mary Bennet: A Novella in the Personages of Pride & Prejudice Collection (8 page)

“Then let us go in to dinner even now!” Mrs. Philips announced, as if waiting one more moment might undo the match. Waving her arms, she shepherded the whole party through the sea of furniture and toward the dining room.

Ten

Mary entered the dining room on Mr. Randall’s arm and flushed at the sight she beheld. Even if her mother and aunt had not already published their intentions for the evening, one look around the table made their machinations obvious. The party was unequal in the number of ladies and gentlemen, and the latter group included only the most desired suitors in the county.

Mary did not know how to feel. While she was pleased to be on the favorable side of the ratio, she wished, as always, that her family had behaved more subtly.

And yet, she could not disappoint them.

Of the potential suitors at the table, only one among them mattered.

Mr. Randall sat across from her, studying his place setting.

Mary must make the most of her opportunity to snare him, but she must let him take the lead.

So she waited.

Through the entire first course, Mr. Randall remained obstinately silent.

Finally, Mary could manage the muteness no longer.

She asked the first socially acceptable question that came to mind: “How do you find the weather, Mr. Randall?”

The young man looked at her for the first time during the meal and said, “Agreeable.”

“Yes,” Mary said, smiling vapidly. “I find warm weather ever so agreeable. It makes for fine conditions on the roads.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Randall said. “We endured very few ruts on our journey here.”

“I do not care for ruts either,” Mary said.

In the space of half a minute, she and Mr. Randall had covered all the recommended topics of polite conversation.

She glanced down the length of the table and saw her mother eyeing her with frantic encouragement. Across from her, Mr. Bennet merely shrugged. She purposely did not look at Mr. Hardcastle or his sister.

Mary must hold further conversation with Mr. Randall, or her mother would intervene. She could not allow that to occur. She must converse on her own terms.

“Do you read, Mr. Randall?” she asked, promising herself that she would not utter one quotation, no matter what he read.

“Yes, I read,” Mr. Randall said, his voice animated for the first time since they had been introduced.

“And what do you read?” Mary asked, pleased to have found a topic that might draw him out.

“Poetry,” he said, smiling and leaning slightly forward in interest. “I confess to consuming a good deal of verse. Do you enjoy poetry, Miss Bennet?”

“Of course,” Mary said. “Poetry was part of my education. Which poets do you admire?”

“Cowper, Byron….” His voice trailed off, and his expression turned misty.

For her own part, Mary did not look kindly upon these newest poets, finding their overt melodrama far too romantical for her own tastes. She wanted to say as much, and the words rushed to her lips. Alas, she could not very well speak such an opinion to Mr. Randall, who clearly adored them.

Mr. Randall’s smile fell away, and his eyes remained wistful as he recited,

Resigning every thought of bliss,

Forever, from your love I go,

Reckless of all the tears that flow,

Disdaining thy polluted kiss.

Mary was acquainted enough with the work of Byron to know that the poem was titled “To Mary.”

It must be a message.

Mr. Randall meant to court her.

After he completed his impassioned recitation, he looked at Mary with tired, earnest eyes. And she felt…nothing. Her heart did not leap, nor did her cheeks flush.

But her mind congratulated her. Mary Bennet had won the approval of a tolerably educated gentleman. Her parents would undoubtedly be pleased, and she would have to suffer none of the discomforts of feelings at all.

“What say you to this business with Napoleon, Mr. Randall?”

These words from Mary’s uncle ripped her mind from its thoughts, and her head shot up in alarm.

She looked quickly at Mr. Randall to find the fervent sincerity drained from his features, and his gaze now returned to his plate.

Mary cast surprised eyes on Mr. Philips, wondering what he could be thinking to bring up such a topic at dinner, much less to Mr. Randall, whose mother hailed from France.

Mr. Randall fidgeted with the previously forgotten dining utensils and said, “I prefer to turn my mind to pleasanter matters.”

Mary smiled at him with sympathetic approval. He had declined to comment with politeness, but her uncle would not allow it.

“Oh, come! You must have an opinion,” Mr. Philips prodded.

Mary’s eyes slid closed. Why would he not leave the subject? Did he not realize the awkward position in which he put his guest?

Slowly, Mary opened her eyes and met Mr. Randall’s gaze again. He pressed his lips together in mute discomfort, and she knew what she must do.

Mary must prevent her uncle from delving further into such a forbidden topic. Rarely was she required to perform a conversational rescue, and recalling her mother’s injunction against moralizing, she searched her mind for the proper method. She did not want to risk her potential union with Mr. Randall while attempting to save him.

Then, she thought of Miss Hardcastle’s use of her femininity.

“Uncle,” she said, voice quavering, “I believe Mr. Randall endeavors to protect me from such a disagreeable subject at dinner.”

It was a lie, of course. Mary would have gladly listened to the bloodiest of war stories if it had not brought Mr. Randall such obvious distress.

“Oh yes, Mary,” her uncle said, eyebrows upraised in surprise. “I had quite forgotten you were there. How very uncouth of me to broach such a subject in the presence of a lady.”

Mary’s spine prickled with annoyance at the idea that she might be incapable of overhearing a rational discussion of politics over a meal, but she also felt rather proud of her small deception. She glanced down the length of the table to where Miss Hardcastle sat with her brother.

Miss Hardcastle boasted of her ability to use her beauty and femininity to accomplish her will, and Mary too had employed that tactic this very night.

Perhaps she had not performed according to Miss Hardcastle’s standards, but Mary Bennet had used her femininity to her advantage for the first time. It was all nonsense, of course—feigning distaste for serious talk—but her ploy had worked. She had used her womanly charms to save Mr. Randall from uneasiness.

This thought drew a smile to Mary’s lips, and she turned her attention back to Mr. Randall, who offered her a small smile of admiration.

Eleven

After dinner, the ladies repaired to the drawing room while the gentlemen drank port and discussed topics unsuited for the ladies’ hearing, probably the Napoleonic Wars.

When at last the gentlemen rejoined them, Mary found herself in the very position she had sought to avoid.

Before her stood Mr. Hardcastle.

Though a dozen people crowded the room, Mary and Mr. Hardcastle were separated from the group by an unfortunate cluster of her aunt’s furniture. As such, they stood at rather a good distance from everyone else.

Despite the crowd, they were essentially alone.

Mr. Hardcastle watched her with such openness that Mary forgot her decision to avoid him at all costs. Instead, she curtsied, inviting the conversation.

Mr. Hardcastle bowed deeply, giving her a view of his short brown hair. Mary felt the oddest desire to touch the neat locks and determine if they were as soft as they appeared. Instead, she clutched her hands in front of her skirt.

“Good evening, Miss Bennet,” he said, his soft voice sounding far more intimate than it ought.

“Good evening,” Mary replied.

Mr. Hardcastle cast an amused glance about the room before returning his focus to Mary.

“If my senses do not deceive me, I believe your mother disapproves of your choice of conversation partner.”

Mary looked over her shoulder to find her mother glowering at her. Upon gaining her daughter’s noticed, Mrs. Bennet lifted her eyebrows and jerked her head toward Mr. Randall. Beside her, Mr. Bennet merely sipped his port.

Mary groaned and turned back to Mr. Hardcastle, her cheeks flaming at her mother’s obvious display. This time, she could not quite meet his eye.

Mr. Hardcastle closed the distance between them ever so slightly, and when he leaned down to speak more privately, Mary looked up at him.

“‘When a girl ceases to blush, she has lost the most powerful charm of beauty,’” he quoted softly.

Mary’s brow furrowed at his words.

“For a gentleman who claims to see the merits of boldness in a female, I find it odd that you quote from Dr. Gregory. That passage, I believe, lists the merits of feminine reserve.”

Mr. Hardcastle smiled fully upon her. “Indeed, I do not agree with the writer’s every treatise, but it does not necessarily follow that I must discount him entirely. A flushed cheek enhances the beauty of the frank as well as the coy.”

Preparing to dispute him, Mary parted her lips, but instead of speaking, she drew in a sharp breath. Was Mr. Hardcastle calling her—Mary, the plainest of all the Bennet sisters—beautiful?

“Though the pink in your cheeks is quite flattering,” Mr. Hardcastle continued, his voice almost inaudible. His gaze slid momentarily in the direction of her mother. “I regret that this evening’s purpose has put it there.”

Confused, Mary let out a little breath.
This evening’s purpose?

He referred to her family’s obvious intent to marry her off to Mr. Randall.

That thought jolted Mary back into reality, and she steeled herself. Her feelings for Mr. Hardcastle would gain her nothing but shame, and she must suppress them.

With a last look at his ardent face, Mary stepped backward, her slippers whispering across the floor until she felt her skirt brush one of the little tables that surrounded them, trapped them.

“Yes, my circumstances are quite different now,” Mary said in a rush of breath.

She knew he took her meaning. He was aware of her mother and aunt’s previous attempt to make a match between them, and he clearly comprehended that Mr. Randall was now the prize they sought.

Mr. Hardcastle raised his eyebrows, and he appeared to restrain himself from closing the distance between them again. “I—”

“I—I must not disappoint my mother,” Mary blurted. She attempted to take another step back, but the small table prevented her from moving far. “I must not.”

Mr. Hardcastle pressed his lips together and lowered his head. “I wish,” he said quietly, “you might seek to gratify yourself and not your mother.”

Panicked at the very idea, Mary held up a hand as if to ward off his suggestion.

“No,” she said. “I must do what is expected of me…what is right.”

Mr. Hardcastle raised his head, and what she saw was temptation itself. His eyes were wide, vulnerable, and slightly sad. She wanted to reach out, brush away his sorrow. She wanted to comfort him and herself as well.

“Dear Lord,” Mary whispered to herself. She must flee from him immediately.

It seems that Mr. Hardcastle read her thoughts in her face, for he took a step forward.

She could not let him speak, must not allow him to convince her, to manipulate her feelings.

Mary burst out with a too loud “I must return to my mother. Pray, excuse me.”

But she did not move.

In keeping with her proclamation that she must excuse herself, Mr. Hardcastle bowed, but his face remained upturned, giving Mary a chance to read the disappointment in his expression. A lump formed in her throat.

“You have set your course then,” Mr. Hardcastle said.

Mary’s mind worked sluggishly, and yet thoughts assailed her. This conversation was entirely too intimate for a dinner party. “You are very blunt, sir.”

“And you are very coy,” he said.

“I am not coy,” Mary protested. “I do not hide who I am. I merely seek to do what is right.”

Instead of curtsying as protocol demanded, she turned, narrowly avoided the infernal furnishings, and fled.