Mary Bennet

Lydia struck first in Mama’s bedchamber. She waited until the late afternoon of the day they were due to return before going to Mama’s dressing-room and taking down Grandmother Gardiner’s box of pomatum and hair-powder. After first plastering her own fat little head with pomatum and liberally sprinkling her hair and person with powder, she turned her attention to the furniture, carpets and bed-hangings.

When I happened upon her — I had picked a small bunch of primroses to place in Mama’s room — I did not at first know who or what she was. I had opened the door on a choking storm of powder in the centre of which appeared to be whirling a small white goblin, eyes glowing in its head and emitting shrill humming sounds.

On sight of me she dodged out of my path, still clutching the box of powder, and ran like a hare along the upper hall heading for the stairs. I could not follow; the powder had momentarily blinded me, coating my new spectacles and thick in my nose and throat. For several minutes I could not even cry out.

But I could hear Gil Pender calling me from the garden — she and Kitty had also been picking primroses to make into nosegays for Jane and Elizabeth — and after first taking off my spectacles, I managed to fumble my way, gasping and coughing, back down the stairs. (Lydia meantime had locked herself in Papa’s library, there to wreak further havoc —something, alas, we did not discover until too late.)

There followed a hunt for the culprit, with Gil, Kitty, myself and some of the servants searching the house and grounds. (Unluckily, the locked library door was never called into question as the housekeeper Mrs George was certain Papa himself had locked it before leaving for London and had taken away the key.)

The search had been underway for over an hour when the sound of a carriage sent me scurrying to the front door. And now the sight of Mama and Papa and my two sisters, their dear familiar faces, filled me with such heartfelt relief that I could scarce draw breath —my old infirmity.

“Why Mary!” Papa had alighted from the carriage and was handing Mama out. “What on earth is the matter, child?”

It was impossible for me to speak. As so often happened when face to face with my father, the words simply would not come. Fortunately Gil Pender came up with Kitty at that point. Gil was a sensible young woman: although in the past self-interest had dictated she turn a blind eye to much of Lydia’s naughtiness, she did not attempt to defend her now. Briefly she stated what had happened, that Lydia herself was still missing but that two of the kitchen staff were presently searching for her, and that a housemaid was this minute engaged in cleaning Mama’s bedchamber.

I stood by, darting looks up at Mama and Papa, less frequently at Jane and Elizabeth. The confusion of my feelings was dreadful. On the one hand I was overjoyed to see my family again but I also feared that, blameless as I was in the whole affair, they might yet hold me responsible: Mama had said expressly: “You must look after the little ones while I am away, Mary.”

And now as I followed them into the house I could not help wondering if my disappearance would have provoked this degree of concern. All of them seemed to be talking at once, questioning Gil as to exactly how long Lydia had been missing, asking her to once again relate the circumstances leading up to her running away. I heard Gil say to Papa then: “I have no fears for Lydia’s safety, sir. In the past she has often hidden from me to ‘scape punishment.”

Mama did not appear to hear this: “Poor little Lydia” said she. “She was forever wanting me to show her my dear mother’s things.”

But on sighting her bedchamber and dressing-room, she paled noticeably: “Lord! But what could have possessed the child!” And for some time she walked about, shaking her head over the smeared panelling, the sticky powdery residue that was everywhere apparent on curtains and walls and window-panes, while the luckless housemaid with mop and bucket and sleeves rolled back continued the Herculean task of cleaning.

And then came my father’s voice, ominously calm, calling to Mama from downstairs, requesting her to please step into his library.

“Has she been found, Mr Bennet?” Mama joyfully cried out. “Has Lydia been found?”

But Papa would not give her an answer. In the half-light I could see him — still in his caped travelling coat — standing with his back to us in the library doorway. And when the housekeeper Mrs George came up to him holding a branch of lighted candles, he took it without a word and gestured for Mama to precede him into the library.

I still could not see into the room — Jane, Elizabeth, Kitty and Gil Pender were all crowding into the doorway. There was a collective drawing-in of breath and someone — most likely it was Mama — gave a scream. And then I had a clear view.

It was a shocking sight — books strewn about with pages torn out, the ink from the standish on Papa’s desk splattered on his favourite wing chair, and over everything a thick coating of powder. In the middle of it all lay Lydia, curled up in Elizabeth’s old nesting place under Papa’s desk, fast asleep.

I seem to have spent an unconscionable amount of time describing this childish escapade of Lydia’s, but it was to have serious consequences for the rest of the Bennet family. My parents in their response to it were no longer able to maintain even a semblance of conjugal unity. There had been a very public disagreement in the library after Papa ordered Gil to take Lydia upstairs and put her to bed without supper. Mama had become hysterical, attempting to snatch the still sleeping Lydia from Gil’s arms (Lydia was able to sleep through thunder storms): “I am not about to let my own child starve, sir! Whatever you may have to say about it!”

Papa had been gathering up the mutilated pages of his books — his favourite novel The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy was amongst the fallen — and now he turned to Mama with a dreadful fierce coldness: “Madam, I would speak with you in private.”

He then ordered the rest of us out of the room and shut the door. The two of them must have been alone together in the library for at least a quarter of an hour but I do not recall hearing any raised voices. Neither of them joined us for supper in the dining-parlour however, and later when I saw Mama going to her dressing-room I noticed she had been crying.

Once the hollowness of their marriage had been exposed, perhaps my father felt compelled to act accordingly. I was too young to understand the significance of his removing to a much smaller bedchamber quite separate from Mama’s room, but I saw — we all saw — his attitude towards her becoming increasingly disrespectful. (Of course we could not know then that there would be no more children, no Gordon Gardiner Bennet to join in cutting off the entail and ensuring Longbourn would not fall into the grasping hands of the Collinses.)

A further consequence, though not an unpleasant one, was that we saw a great deal of the Gardiners. Mama had them staying with us frequently, sometimes together; sometimes the new Mrs Gardiner would visit by herself when her husband was called away on business. And they always came to Longbourn at Christmas. Mama may have hoped that their presence would deter Papa from making sarcastic remarks: he was always more agreeable when the Gardiners were at Longbourn. We all were.

Elizabeth was particularly impressed with Mrs Gardiner, or Aunt Gardiner as we now called her. This didn’t surprise me: Elizabeth was always looking for surrogate mothers, and neither Jane nor Charlotte Lucas was quite old enough for the role whereas Aunt Gardiner — about twelve years younger than Mama but infinitely more sensible and clever — was exactly right. And when it became known that Aunt was with child, she became an even greater object of interest, and not merely to Elizabeth.

Of course this was supposed to be a great secret, but I overheard Aunt talking about it with Jane and Elizabeth one evening a couple of weeks before Christmas — the second Christmas Aunt was to spend at Longbourn — when the three of them were busy making clothes for the poor. (Without the least fuss or parade Aunt was setting us an example in practical charity. Every evening after tea if she had no engagements she would repair to the breakfast room to do this work and more often than not Jane and Elizabeth would join her.)

On this particular evening Aunt was using the long breakfast table to measure and cut out cloth while Jane and Elizabeth were pinning and tacking seams. And for the first time I had been allowed to stay up to help them. It was a proud moment. Aunt had set me to cutting lengths of ribbon. But after a while I became tired — I was not yet nine years old and it was well past my bedtime — and the tranquil room (so unusual for Longbourn!) full of warmth and pleasant sounds — the murmur of female voices, the regular snip of Aunt’s scissors, my sisters’ occasional laughter — all combined to lull me into a dreamlike trance.

And it seemed in this trance or waking dream of mine that the following exchange occurred, or something very like it:

“Dear Aunt, only look! Mary has cut this ribbon into such short lengths that now it is quite good for nothing.”

“Oh I’m sure we shall find a use for it, Lizzy. Perhaps I shall use it to trim the baby’s caps.”

“I know Mama means to make you a present of a christening cap and robe, dear Aunt.” (This from Jane.)

“Do you wish for a boy or a girl, Aunt?”

“A healthy child is all I would wish for, Eliza.”

“Ah, but supposing Uncle’s property was entailed away from the female line, what then?”

There was a pause and then my aunt spoke very quick. She thought that there had been quite enough said on that subject already. And then: “Poor Mary. She will have to be carried upstairs to bed. Do you ring the bell for Gil, Lizzy.”

This conversation gave me much food for thought and I confess to my shame it also gave me a taste for eavesdropping for a few days later I deliberately listened to another conversation between the three of them. Again it took place late in the evening and again they were working in the breakfast room.

I had not intended to eavesdrop precisely — I had gone downstairs in search of Lydia’s new kitten — but in passing the breakfast room I noticed that the door was ever so slightly ajar and a sudden burst of laughter roused my curiosity. What on earth did they all find so amusing? Even Jane was laughing heartily. And it occurred me (as I crept ever closer to the door) that the lost kitten would serve as an excellent pretext if anyone were to ask what I was about.

By now of course the blood was beating in my head so that I thought it would be impossible for me to hear what they were saying anyway. But pretty soon it was clear that they were talking — and laughing — about my tutor Mr Knowles.

“He claims to have had visions, Aunt! He once told Jane he had conversed with an angel!”

(More laughter.)

“He is undoubtedly a pious young man Aunt, but I fear he is misguided.”

“He is mad, quite mad! Papa thinks him the stupidest young man he has ever encountered.”

“We are a little concerned that Mary’s education will suffer. It seems to consist entirely of religious instruction.”

“He has her reading the Bible morning, noon and night — the Bible and Fordyce’s Sermons.”

“And then she is obliged to learn such very long passages by heart —”

“And he has written out two catechisms for her if you please — on Bible doctrine and the Lord’s Prayer. As for geography, it is all the Holy Land. They are forever poring over maps of the Holy Land.”

“But my dears —” Aunt had been laughing but now she sounded quite serious. “It is your parents to whom you should be addressing these concerns, not me.”

“No it is of no use. It is the one thing they agree upon: that Mr Knowles must stay.”

“Mary is so attached to him you see.”

“I daresay you have heard of the Bushells, Aunt? Of Mary’s experience in that family?”

Aunt said yes, that she had.

There was a pause and then Aunt said: “And Mary’s progress in other subjects? Arithmetic, for instance?”

“She cannot cast up a single sum with accuracy. She is completely ignorant of the rudiments.”

“I fear she has been hurried through the different rules.”

Aunt spoke again. “Yet Mary is so very attached to him.”

“And I believe he is sincerely attached to her” said Jane. “I know he considers her to be amazingly clever.”

There was a moment’s pause and then all three of them exploded into laughter.

[ This novella will be continued in the next issue. ]