A Match for Mary Bennet (2 page)

A man of moderate fortune still single into his thirty-second year, who has manoeuvred past temptations to imprudent matches and has slid guiltily past prudent matches devoid of temptation, usually views “someday” a likelier wedding day than “next month” or even “next year.” Thus, it surprised Colonel Darcy Fitzwilliam, second son of the earl of Norwich Mills, to find himself mentally rehearsing a proposal of marriage, though the exact object of that proposal remained uncertain.

After a month in Kent with his ailing aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, the Colonel might have been preparing a report for his cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy, who had requested his journey. Darcy's wife being so near to her lying-in and still inclined to keep up her usual active life, Darcy had remained with her to urge continued rest. Mrs. Darcy's friend in Kent, Charlotte Collins, had written that Lady Catherine, who was by far too stubborn to be ill, nevertheless had suffered a “serious indisposition.” Though the redoubtable Lady Catherine had all but divorced her nephew, Darcy did not return the sentiment, and he wanted a firsthand account of her health. His amiable cousin had obliged him and had spent a month attending Lady Catherine in the company of her daughter, Anne, and the local surgeon. Now he mused, to the rhythmic swish of carriage wheels, on all his female acquaintances.

The Colonel rather enjoyed the diversions of Rosings Park until Lady Catherine's strength returned. Then, having faced the prospect that she could actually die like other mortals, that dowager set about preparing her world for life without her. Her daughter, approaching thirty and unlikely to meet anyone worthy to marry a genuine de Bourgh, occupied her first concern. She strongly urged Fitzwilliam to marry her.

The suggestion appalled the Colonel, who had for years pitied his cousin Darcy for no other reason than that Lady Catherine asserted to all the family that Darcy was “destined for Anne.” No sooner had he transferred that pity to himself than he resolved to follow Darcy's example and take a bride of his own choosing.

True, Anne de Bourgh would inherit great riches, but no wealth of land and its rents could make palatable a life yoked to that mousy, sickly, cross, and simpering young woman. And to Fitzwilliam, even her fortune presented no asset. He had grown too fond of his own moderate estate of Castle Park adjoining the charming village of Castlebury in Norfolk. He could not face becoming slave to the de Bourgh estate at Rosings Park.

Consequently, at Lady Catherine's odious suggestion, he had frowned and said he doubted such a course would be possible for him. Now he faced a problem Darcy had not encountered. Darcy's immense holdings in Derbyshire had made possible the courtship of lively, lovely Elizabeth Bennet, whose chief fortune was wit, charm, and character. Fitzwilliam, on the contrary, had to support his estate, and after his military career, he hoped for a wife with some dowry—at least ten thousand pounds—with interest sufficient for comfortable living.

The Colonel looked out of the carriage window, briefly caught the reflection of his chiseled features, pushed back the flop of hair that persisted in hiding his forehead, and judged that he would not likely attract some new acquaintance quickly enough to escape Miss de Bourgh. He must court someone who knew him well enough already to appreciate his character and overlook his unprepossessing countenance. He smiled at the reasonable ten thousand pounds he now estimated as his need. A few years ago Mrs. Darcy, then still Miss Bennet, had teased him, asking the price of an earl's second son. The sum he had then, and even recently, envisioned had shrunk appreciably at the moment of Lady Catherine's proposal.

Without the luxury of choosing for love, he examined the possibilities his present social circle provided. He thought of the young women he knew in Castlebury. Quickly he dismissed Miss Reed, who was far too frivolous, and the cripplingly timid Miss Gribble. Alas, many other neighbours lacked even the modest portion he felt necessary. He turned to wider circles. Did any of his fellow officers have amiable sisters? Yes, but unfortunately none that he knew possessed much of a dowry. But the idea of sisters brought him to his cousin Darcy and Darcy's good friend Bingley. Georgiana Darcy and Caroline Bingley captured his first attention. Georgiana, only recently of age, had been under his and Darcy's guardianship since her father's death. He knew she loved him as cousin and guardian. Since living at Pemberley with Elizabeth, Miss Darcy had shed some of her childlike timidity and had blossomed into a charming, even witty maiden, though of late he had seen moments of melancholy. He felt sure Darcy would not oppose the match, and though her fortune of thirty thousand pounds as well as her beauty of face and character made her fit for a nobleman, Darcy had no such ambitions for her. If she could but learn to like him more intimately, as courtship might evoke, he had some hope of winning her.

And what of Darcy's new sisters, the younger Miss Bennets? Might Darcy not offer even them some dowry their own family could not manage? Fitzwilliam resolved to make himself agreeable to them in Hertfordshire, just in case.

As for Caroline Bingley, he knew not for certain the extent of her fortune, but her provident father had done well in trade and would have extended his generosity to her as he had for her sister, Louisa. Besides, Darcy's genial friend Bingley was as openhanded as anyone he knew, and he would certainly approve the match. Caroline had stately beauty, ease of manner in society, and musical talent. If she occasionally spoke sharply, chiefly to or about women, she at least showed energy and ready wit. Being closer to his age than Georgiana, she may have more in common with him, and the rougher edges of her wit may well mellow with marriage.

A raucous clatter of wheels told the Colonel he was in London, and when the carriage slowed to a stop at the Bell, he had time for a bit of beef and ale before taking the post to Hertfordshire. He dashed past a small knot of men loitering under the swaying sign of a greying and scratched bell. He soon had his simple fare before him, and he spent much of the quiet mealtime recalling last year's Christmas ball at Pemberley. It had been the second one since Darcy's marriage. How much more festive it was than the first, when the lovely Elizabeth tried to be all things to all her new neighbours and grew tense over it. That second one, nine months ago, displayed an Elizabeth comfortable in her position as mistress of Pemberley. Besides, the presence of the Bingleys, recently moved from Hertfordshire, had obviously added to Mrs. Darcy's joy, Jane being her most beloved sister. Mrs. Bingley exuded a grace and calm presence exactly complementing the witty charm of Mrs. Darcy. Bingley himself, Darcy's oldest friend, had likewise enhanced Darcy's pleasure, so that even the stateliest guests joined in the merriment. The Colonel himself had danced—and even sung noels—with a pleasure he experienced anew as he thought of it. Georgiana charmed him with her slightly timid smile and new-found ease and grace of movement. She even teased him a bit as they danced, crowing that he no longer had license to tell her what to do since her coming of age. Caroline Bingley, houseguest of the Bingleys, amused him greatly at that ball also. Fitzwilliam's dances with her were altogether enjoyable, and he was much taken with her fine dark eyes and stately, almost majestic manner. Yes, either young lady would grace his homely estate. Caroline's imperious good looks pleased his military nature. Her fortune, likely adequate, could not reach a proportion which would render his own modest Norfolk estate inconsequential. On the other hand, Georgiana's new sparkle and burgeoning womanhood appealed to him, and Georgiana may well prefer being lady of the house in her own right to remaining at Pemberley, where she resided only as sister of the master.

He tried to recall the Bennet girls at that ball, but only the younger one came to mind. He had danced with her, he knew. What was it she was called? Kitty? Probably Catherine, a name not happy in its nuances for him. Of the other sister he remembered nothing. He knew he had not danced with her.

Fitzwilliam entered the carriage bound for Meryton, still certain of his course yet undecided as to its exact object. He hoped to explain satisfactorily his visit to the Bennet family by offering to collect any messages the family might wish him to carry to their married daughters in the North. It would be pleasant to provide some missive more palatable to Mrs. Darcy's taste than the note from Lady Catherine, which burned in his pocket. He knew not what it contained, but Lady Catherine's grim and rigid expression as she wrote and handed it to him led him to fear that it would not please the recipient. He meant also to glean some homely news from Longbourn to retail to Jane Bingley and Elizabeth Darcy, sure that it would be more welcome than what he had to tell of his stay in Kent. He might even mention his own just-forming plan to be married by next year, in order to see how the idea fared. The more he thought of marriage, the more comfortable he grew at the prospect. Marriage had done his cousin's companionability a great good: Darcy's concerns had deepened, his compassion extended beyond his estates, and his ease as both host and guest had visibly increased. Fitzwilliam sighed. “May my own future be so bettered by taking on a helpmate!”

At Longbourn, half of the Bennet household bustled gaily from the large sitting room to the hall mirror preparing for the next day's assembly. Gowns had been brushed and aired, and fussing over hairdressings now occupied young Catherine Bennet, while Mrs. Bennet called for Hill every few minutes to have her freshen a bit of lace or press yet another ribbon. Catherine set three ribbons and some gems on the table before her and fastened the gems carefully onto one ribbon and then another, twisting each into her hair and frowning, unsure which looked the most elegant. One by one, she took them to the mirror and returned, dissatisfied, to exchange ribbons or to rearrange the gems.

Not far from the sitting room table, Mary sat quietly rereading a small volume of Pope's essay-poems that her father had lent her. At Kitty's every moan of displeasure, Mary sighed and frowned, distracted from the reading she depended on to improve her mind. Each of her sighs invariably brought on a volley of reproof from Mrs. Bennet, along with a reminder that Mary too would be dancing on the morrow and might profit by entering into the preparations. The expected arrival of Colonel Fitzwilliam increased Mrs. Bennet's anticipated pleasure in the ball, and she showed deep resentment at Mary's studious indifference. “It is a special blessing of Providence that he is coming just at this time, and you know he will feel obliged to partner you in the dance. Why do you not take interest enough to look your best?”

Mary responded laconically, “Oh, Mama, Kitty can entertain the Colonel far better than I can anyway. Why should I not try to improve my mind?”

Mr. Bennet, safe in his customary retreat of the library, contemplated his delinquent correspondence. The Colonel's generous offer to stop on his way to Derbyshire prompted him to answer Elizabeth's letter, so full of delight, awe, and trepidation over her expected first child. He easily addressed himself to her, perhaps his favourite daughter and certainly his wittiest. Upon completion of this labour of love, however, he sat back in his cosy leather chair and turned to the letter from Jane, his oldest daughter, which gave him pause. He reread it, enjoying Jane's genuine delight in the antics of little Beth, Bennet's only grandchild at present, and her expressions of genuine joy in her husband Charles, so loving and good-humoured. He set the letter aside. Much as he missed the Bingleys since their move to Nottingham, he knew they had done well in buying their own estate near the Darcys. He also knew that even life so close to Pemberley could not be as rosy as Jane contrived to portray it, and her failure to mention Charles's sister Caroline conveyed more than Jane had intended. Sweet Jane, who never said anything where nothing good could be said, spoke a silent complaint to which Bennet could hardly respond. No, he would refer that letter to his wife, who would likely not notice the omission. Whenever Mrs. Bennet tired of urging Hill to the height of frenzy over the ball, which Kitty and she would enjoy and Mary would endure, she could write to Jane. Then the Colonel, due to arrive on the day of the ball, would carry letters to both daughters in the North.

Bennet glanced at the other letters before him. Lydia's request for an advance of her per annum allowance showed only her persistence in a vain pursuit and her ignorance of the meaning of annum. He would copy his previous terse letter, as he had no intention of honouring such a request. At any rate, he knew Mrs. Bennet would send her whatever the household could spare each month.

He turned to the more amusing notes. Wickham, the ever-ingratiating erstwhile military officer who had carried off Lydia and subsequently been paid to marry her, had sent yet another preposterous scheme. The project purported to be like all Wickham's others: “absolutely certain to double their money” in a few years. It offered Bennet an “investment opportunity.” Wickham and his cohorts proposed to buy up old post horses, spruce them up, and sell them at London fairs. Bennet decided to answer that one in a carefully expanded panegyric on the evils of speculation. Wickham would not, of course, read it, but if sufficient papers were inserted, Bennet could picture his son-in-law frantically searching through them under the illusion that a cheque was included.

He smiled as he picked up Mr. Collins's last epistle. That pompous clergyman cousin of his had written from Kent to announce the birth of his daughter Louisa, named for Charlotte's mother. Mr. Bennet surmised that this, like the name of the Collins son Lucas, represented a hope for lucrative attentions from the children's grandparents which were unlikely to ever materialize. Especially of interest in the letter was the sermonet on the “grave responsibility of raising a daughter in the fear of God, instilling modest and seemly behaviour so as to avoid any hint of scandal as she approaches womanhood.” He recognized this reference to his Lydia, and he momentarily wished upon poor Louisa a spitfire temperament like Lydia's. He would answer Collins later, with many pointers on raising daughters to encourage their adventurous spirits that they may become as gracious and charming as Elizabeth. That may remind Collins that his Lizzy had had the good sense to refuse his offer of marriage.

In the morning room, from time to time, Catherine importuned Mary to join her in concern for her ball attire. Mary declined, preferring to continue copying couplets she meant to memorise and use in conversation. Her father's cousin, Mr. Collins, had recommended this method of proceeding in society, and she liked to take the clergyman's advice.

“Mary, how do you like this pink ribbon now?” Kitty asked as she twisted it before her, its rhinestones sparkling.

“Very nice, Kitty.” Mary barely looked up.

“I have a new pink gown, you know.”

“I am sure both will look fine on you.” Mary read on: “In all you speak, let truth and candour shine.”

“And what will you wear?”

Mary finally looked up. “My grey muslin is brushed and aired. It will do fine.” She went back to her book.

“Oh, Mary! You always wear that. Everybody will think you too poor to afford better. And what in your hair?”

“Oh, I will wear the combs Lizzy gave me for Christmas.” Mary watched her sister put forth another adorned ribbon for inspection. She could not help wondering how many dressings Kitty meant to wear at this ball. She added, “And everybody at this ball knows us perfectly well and probably what we can afford, to the last farthing. What does it matter?” She returned to her reading.

Catherine expressed her yearning for the sister who would have shared her enthusiasm for finery. “If Lydia were here, she would love a fine gown.”

Mary smiled over what she read, developing a kinship with Alexander Pope. “They'll talk you dead.” But all she said was, “Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.”

Catherine seemed not to hear. “Do you think Lydia will come?”

Mary bit her lips tight and did not reply. She neither spoke of nor acknowledged her youngest sister since Mr. Collins had admonished them to consider Lydia as one dead.

Catherine grew impatient. “Really, Mary, you might as well say something.”

“Oh, I hear you, Catherine. I choose not to recognize the person of whom you speak.”

Mrs. Bennet left off stewing over Hill's long absence in pursuit of their shoe roses. She burst out, “For heaven's sake, Mary. Stop judging Lydia. She at least did what she should do—she got a husband! When will you manage that?”

The acquisition of a husband would not ever trouble her, Mary decided. She wanted to assure Mrs. Bennet that her happiness did not depend on marriage, but she knew that her mother would deny the possibility. One day Mary might find herself living contentedly at Derbyshire with Elizabeth and Darcy, just as Caroline Bingley lived with Jane and Charles at Nottingham. What could be simpler? She did not understand such persistent anxiety over beaux. Perhaps it was a mere habit that Mama could not break.

Exasperated, Mrs. Bennet again looked for Hill and, not seeing her, turned on Mary. “You will look to please a young man if you know what is good for you. You act this way only to antagonise me! Consider my poor nerves!”

Mary looked up from her reading and spoke calmly. “To me it seems that I act from a spirit of order. I try to accomplish what I have set out to do each day. I keep a schedule in my head.” Perhaps it steadies my own nerves, she thought.

If anything, her answer further enraged Mrs. Bennet. “Oh, Mary! Forget your silly regimen! Such nonsense you talk. With your head full of schedules you will never find time for anything important.”

At this point, Hill hastened in with the shoe roses, and the assessment of them took the full attention of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty. Mary returned to her pursuit of sagacity.