The Unexpected Miss Bennet (25 page)

‘Do you not play, Miss Bennet?’ one lady said, a vision of glittering adornment in a too-youthful gown. ‘My word, how do you keep from dying of boredom in Hertfordshire?’

Another lady at the table laughed behind her hand. ‘I imagine Miss Bennet has simpler pleasures to keep her busy. Whenever I find myself in the country, I never can be persuaded to play cards or stay indoors, but must always be about walking, and imbibing the fresh air, and looking at the darling cows and pigs.’

Mary wondered what country she could possibly be referring to but only rearranged her hand.

‘Now my dear,’ said the third lady, and she laid her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘You can be quite at ease with us. We know you must be longing to spend some time away from your duties.’

Ah, Mary thought. That was what they were about. They wanted to quiz her about her relationship with Miss de Bourgh, without asking Mary directly to gossip about her.

‘So ill and frail, poor Miss de Bourgh. She should have taken the waters at Bath or Harrogate. Yes, Bath would have cured her. But she danced so well tonight, so perhaps she is improving? Will she go to London soon? Surely Lady Catherine will take her to London, the town would be much improved by her presence.’

‘Don’t you think, Miss Bennet, that Miss de Bourgh would make a vast improvement on London?’

‘My opinion is of no matter,’ Mary said, disgusted by their gossip-mongering. They were grander than her Aunt Phillips and would no doubt have condescended to the vulgar old lady, but they were behaving in the same way themselves. Fordyce had warned against such examples of her sex, those matrons who sought only to draw a young lady into their own circle instead of guiding her appearances in society. Besides, she really didn’t like them at all. She continued, ‘But as you believe it to be so, I own it must be true.’

The ladies laughed again. ‘It must be difficult, to be the companion of Miss de Bourgh,’ one said, her eyes bright and eager. ‘Lady Catherine is so demanding.’

Mary folded her cards and simply looked upon her companions. They watched her avidly. ‘Lady Catherine,’ she began, warming to her task, ‘is, I believe, a most singular female. She is proud and condescending, to be sure, yet she is honourable and most respectable. She has decided opinions but her counsel is, in my experience, always good. I can give you many examples. First—’ She paused to see how her pronouncements were being taken. The ladies looked at her with expressions of alarm. Mary tried to keep from smiling. She could keep this up for ever. After all, she had practice at it. She took a breath, when one of the ladies interrupted, asking one of the others about an acquaintance. They continued that conversation and Mary fanned open her cards again with quiet satisfaction.

THE EVENING BROKE up at an early hour, in keeping with Lady Catherine’s schedule. Mary rose from the card table with relief. Anne was exhausted. The evening’s exercise had not been very taxing, but the accompanying terrors and apprehension had been more than her nervous disposition was equal to. She had very little to say to Mary or even her mother, and once she was safely ensconced in her bed, Mary sought hers. As she took down her hair and stepped into her dressing-gown, she thought with satisfaction on the evening. She had acquitted herself well against her interlocutors, who must have hoped she was a silly girl eager to talk about her benefactors. Instead, Fordyce had armed her and armed her well.

As for Anne, the evening could be considered a success. Mary resolved to ask her on the morrow, when she was refreshed, what her opinion of the evening was. It had not been a very diverting night, and the second half of the evening was more of what Anne was used to, for she and her mother often played cards, but the dancing! Anne had done very well with the dancing. She should be well pleased, Mary thought. She yawned, braided her hair loosely, and blew out the candle. As she slipped into her bed, she thought that Lady Catherine should be pleased as well. Perhaps one Bennet she could approve of, Mary thought, and drifted off to sleep.

M
ARY THOUGHT LATER that it was the assembly that was her downfall. From the hours spent in friendship at the Collinses, teaching Anne de Bourgh to dance, to her charge’s successful, quiet debut into the small society of the country, all had gone towards putting Mary at her ease, the better to lure her to her doom. No evil snare was better set to entrap her – she walked into it with her eyes open and confident.

Anne was not the only one who came out that evening. Mary had impressed many of the gentlemen at the party, especially one of her partners, Mr Stevens. The portly gentleman came calling two days later and left his card. Lady Catherine grew thunderous, thinking the poor man meant to call on her daughter, when he was in no wise grand enough for a de Bourgh. She was only somewhat mollified when she discovered that he expected to pay his addresses to Mary. She called Mary into the drawing room.

‘Miss Bennet, I cannot be expected to chaperone your courtship. If you encourage Mr Stevens, it will be under your parents’ roof, not mine.’

Mary endeavoured to assure Lady Catherine that she had no interest in encouraging Mr Stevens and that she was sure the gentleman was just being polite.

‘And yet you danced several dances with him, Miss Bennet. If that’s not encouragement, I don’t know what is. I will not harbour a flirt or a coquette. It is a bad example for Anne, though her reputation cannot suffer for it, except by connection.’

‘It was the nature of the assembly, Lady Catherine,’ Mary tried to explain. ‘We all danced with the same partners, for there was only one set.’ And none of us could sit down, she added silently.

‘You should have sat down, Miss Bennet. A young lady can always choose to sit down.’ Lady Catherine sounded appeased though, and her voice became more gentle. ‘My Anne danced, did she not?’

‘She danced very well, Lady Catherine. She was quite pleased with herself, as she should be.’

When Lady Catherine spoke next, she took Mary by surprise. ‘Miss Bennet, your presence here has done Anne good.’

Mary managed to stammer out her thanks and Lady Catherine waved a beringed hand at her.

‘No more suitors, Miss Bennet. You are warned.’

Lady Catherine should have warned the suitors. For it was not just Mr Stevens, but two or three young men from the village who were eager to talk to Miss Bennet after church and when they intercepted the two young ladies on their walks to the village. Mr Stevens was nothing – unsuitable for Anne. But the young men, closer in age and in lineage, and being that sort of person with whom young ladies prefer to fall in love, were to be prized. Yet none of them had much interest in Anne, who reverted to her bashful countenance, barely able to bow, when they drew near. They vied instead over Mary.

Mary took no pleasure from the attention. She used to wonder how Jane, who attracted suitors the way flowers attracted bees, could not be proud of the distinction. Now, she felt how it must have embarrassed her sister, not to say annoyed her. Mary and Anne could go nowhere without it being assumed by these young men that they would stop and talk. And the men would speak nothing of interest and they would ignore poor Anne. They showed off their horsemanship but they could not be compared to Mr Aikens. He would not have spurred or whipped his horse so – she could not imagine him treating Hyperion that way.

Unwelcome male attention was of the utmost lack of interest to Mary. She knew that it hurt Anne terribly, though. Anne never spoke of it, and as far as Mary could tell, she did not complain to her mother, but she lost interest in going out. Though they tried other walks it seemed that they must be confined to the garden to avoid the assiduous attentions of the young gentlemen.

It is very annoying, Mary thought. If Lady Catherine finds out, she will think I encouraged them, just as she thought I encouraged Mr Stevens.

She discovered exactly what Lady Catherine would think very shortly afterwards. It was a rainy autumn day, when there was no walking that day at all. Lady Catherine was managing her accounts, and Anne herself dozed away the afternoon. Reading had palled and there was nothing else with which to amuse herself. Restless and bored, Mary sat down at the pianoforte in her little suite, left from Mrs Jenkinson’s day, and began to play.

The instrument sounded much better than the tinkly little spinet at Longbourn, though it was not as grand an instrument as Georgiana’s pianoforte at Pemberley. It was so long since she had played that her hands were rusty and she made many mistakes, but she was well on her way to regaining her skill. Rather than rush through the simple exercises as she was used to do, she took her time, and was rewarded with suppleness and a better sound than she had ever produced before.

Mary knew she would never be accomplished, and in the knowing gave up the ambition. Instead, she took joy and comfort in the simple tunes. Some she managed from memory, others from the yellowed sheet music left on the piano. She continued playing softly, now and again darting a glance at the door with a little bit of alarm, afraid of being discovered. If Lady Catherine heard her play, she would not know what to think. Mary could almost hear her complaints. ‘Miss Bennet! What is the meaning of this! You expressly told me that you do not play!’

Soon she forgot her apprehension and was lost in the music, and even tried a more difficult composition than she had ever played before, puzzling out each measure as carefully as she could. She almost forgot where she was. It was one of the maids who interrupted her.

‘Miss,’ the woman said from the doorway. Mary jumped, taken by surprise. She had a dim awareness that the maid had been standing there for some time and had even knocked, but she hadn’t noticed.

‘You have a visitor, miss,’ the woman said, and the disapproval in her voice said all that her actual words could not: that she wondered what Lady Catherine would think.

‘A visitor?’ Mary said blankly. Could it be Mr Stevens again? Her heart sank. Had she not made it as clear as possible that his attentions were unwelcome? Or was it one of the young men from the village? Not on such a day as this – it had not stopped raining all day, for it was well on its way towards winter and the first frosts.

‘Yes, miss. A young gentleman. Mr Aikens.’

Mary stared at her, her mouth open in a most unbecoming way.

‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘Did you say Mr Aikens?’

‘Yes, miss. He waits in the hall.’

Mary felt as if she were walking in a dream as she followed the maid to the hall. A figure stood there, his greatcoats dripping on the parqueted floor in gleaming puddles, the butler and the footmen waiting by to wipe the water as soon as he handed them his coats. He turned from contemplating a bust of some great man that guarded the front door when she approached.

‘Miss Mary!’ He stepped forward, holding out his hand. She took it, hardly knowing what to do. ‘I knew I would find you here! What a ride! What stables! I took Hyperion round first thing, just to make sure, you know, that he would be well cared for. You don’t mind, do you? Since you didn’t know I was coming, that is. I hoped it would be a surprise.’

‘It is,’ Mary said faintly. She curtsied awkwardly, well aware of the servants watching without appearing to.
Lady Catherine will be livid
. But she couldn’t turn Mr Aikens away. ‘Mr Aikens, how wonderful to see you. Why?’

‘Came to see you, of course. Your sister said they left you here.’ He leaned forward with an exaggerated whisper. ‘I’ve come to rescue you. It was Hyperion’s idea.’

Rescued? Whatever could he mean?

‘I am not a prisoner, Mr Aikens.’

He looked crestfallen. ‘I didn’t think you were really a prisoner. It’s not like that book, you know. I know that. But you don’t want to stay, do you?’

Mary hardly knew what to say. Luckily, the butler did. No doubt hoping to hurry the dripping young man out of his hall, he said, ‘Would the young gentleman like to sit by the fire in the small parlour? I can have tea sent in, miss.’