Mary Bennet
[ Issue 40 ]

Mary Bennet is one of Emily Bronto’s favourite Bikwil features

Bikwil has a thing about Mary Bennet

Mary Bennet

Here is Part 12 of Jennifer Paynter's serialised novella Mary Bennet, which began in Issue 31.
 

And I had been so certain I was safe! Mr Coates, I knew, had left for London earlier that morning and would be away for several days, Nonna had gone into Meryton to shop, and George and Sam were out riding. I had watched both boys out of the house before going to the library and unlocking — with shaking hands and pounding heart — the big breakfront bookcase where Mr Coates kept copies of all his own works and taking out the first of the red leather bound volumes. But now as I sat, head bowed and sick with dread, I heard merely the rustle of swiftly turned pages and then — incredibly — a burst of laughter.

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Mary Bennet — Jennifer Paynter

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12

“What is it you are reading, Mary, pray?”

Mrs Allardyce, still wearing her dressing gown, had entered the Netherfield library just as I was turning the opening pages of Renata. Concealment was impossible: she had already plucked the book from my grasp. All I could do was wait, speechless and trembling, for her anger to break. If she were to strike me now, I felt it would be no more than I deserved.

And I had been so certain I was safe! Mr Coates, I knew, had left for London earlier that morning and would be away for several days, Nonna had gone into Meryton to shop, and George and Sam were out riding. I had watched both boys out of the house before going to the library and unlocking — with shaking hands and pounding heart — the big breakfront bookcase where Mr Coates kept copies of all his own works and taking out the first of the red leather bound volumes. But now as I sat, head bowed and sick with dread, I heard merely the rustle of swiftly turned pages and then — incredibly — a burst of laughter.

“Good God!” Pulling out a chair and seating herself beside me. “I had quite forgotten —” Breaking off to read once more.

After a minute or so of rustling silence I ventured to glance up at her. She was utterly engrossed — nibbling the tip of her little finger as she read. Several more minutes passed and I was beginning to breathe more easily when she spoke again — abruptly this time, without lifting her eyes from the page: “How came you by this? Did Jasper give it you?”

“Oh no, ma’am!” I cleared my throat, trying to speak collectedly: “The key had been left in the bookcase and I — I know I oughtn’t to have opened it without Mr Coates’ leave, I know that very well. But my aunt — yesterday my aunt spoke of the book so highly, that I ventured —”

“Your aunt?” Looking at me intently now. “Your mother’s sister? The one who lives in Meryton?”

“Oh no, that is my Aunt Philips. No, I was speaking of Aunt Gardiner — she is a great reader, my Aunt Gardiner —”

“Never mind, never mind.” Her attention had gone back to Renata, and soon the little finger had crept back into her mouth. She must have read for the best part of five minutes — it seemed an eternity — and then she laughed again but it was an embarrassed groaning sort of laugh, such as a poor joke might elicit. And then she cast the book aside and looked at me.

Her look was not unfriendly. I had the impression she was quite pleased to have an audience — a sycophantic servant would have done as well as a docile child. She wanted to talk.

“Very few people have read this novel, you know, Mary.”

“Indeed?” I quavered. I thought it best not to repeat what Aunt had said.

“Jasper sent it to a publisher just on the chance — fare un esperimento, you understand? He thought nobody would want it. And then they offered him a hundred guineas. That’s a lot of money, wouldn’t you agree, a hundred guineas? Very hard to say no to a hundred guineas. And he was just twenty years old.”

She picked up the book again — this time respectfully, tracing the gold scroll about the title. “He should never have accepted of course. He should have known that people would recognize the characters, the circumstances — everything pointed to Mama and myself — he should have disguised all that. But it was very much a young man’s novel, very confessionale. He didn’t consider our reputations. Of course Mama — being Mama — declared she didn’t care.”

She paused, frowning, and I thought perhaps her own confession had ended, but then she went on in a very passable imitation of Nonna: “Reputation is no matter, Christina, when a person is making art!”

I laughed — I knew it was expected of me — and she continued: “Yes, well I happen to think it does matter. And Jasper eventually came round to my way of thinking — too late of course — he then had to spend a small fortune buying up the publisher’s stock.“

“Yes,” I began hesitantly. “My aunt did mention —”

But she was not listening, intent on justifying herself: “We all have to live in the world Mary, and I had my boys to consider. And I’ve no assets — no capital — apart from my good name.” Pausing and giving me one of her curiously disappointing smiles. “And my good looks of course.”

Nature’s coin,” I murmured. I was then afraid she would think me impertinent, but she merely looked amused.

“Precisely.”

“Mr Knowles had me learn many such aphorisms — on account of my plainness and my sisters’ good looks.”

“No, you’ll never be a beauty, that’s certain.” She got up and went over to the bookcase and I watched while she took down the second volume of Renata. “You must cultivate your talents, your music — you must study to become interessante.” Rapidly leafing through the end pages as she spoke: “Perhaps you will write a novel yourself one day, who knows?”

“You’re pleased to make fun of me, ma’am.”

“Not at all, not at all.” She laid aside the second volume and took down the third. “Of course it’s next to impossible for a woman to make her own way in the world, but if I had the least little talent I assure you I’d be labouring night and day to turn it to good account — to earn some money for myself. As it is, I’m reduced to muddling along with Jasper. Or marrying Fred Purvis.”

I was astounded. “But Mr Purvis is so . . . So . . . ”

She laughed. “So so rich, Mary! I have it on good authority he’s worth at least twelve thousand a year.”

“But ma’am.” The image of Mr Purvis — a fat fiftyish dandy with improbable chestnut hair — was so strong in my mind I could not believe her to be serious. “You would have to live with him.”

“Ah, but not for long. I have it all planned. I shall engage an Italian cook. And Purvis will then gorge himself. Oh! he will pop off within a year.”

I could not laugh with her. That she should think of marrying Mr Purvis solely for his money was bad enough but to plan his death — to joke about it!

“What a solemn little creature you are.” She collected all three volumes of Renata and came back to where I was sitting. “You peer at me through your spectacles so that I feel quite . . .” Shaking her head at me, and then when I failed to respond: “Oh what an unforgiving basilisk stare — you look exactly like your sister Elizabeth. But really, you mustn’t judge me, you know. Judge not, that ye be not judged. I feel sure your Mr Knowles has impressed that upon you. Should you like to read this then?”

Amazingly, she was handing me the volumes. “I really don’t think it will corrupt you — the whole thing is such ancient history now. It may even help you to understand us better. God knows we’re all of us in need of understanding. Only you must not tell them at Longbourn that it has any factual basis. And don’t let Mr Knowles see it for God’s sake.”

“No indeed, ma’am — thank you! I shall never let it go out of my own hands, I promise —”

“Oh, I shouldn’t object to either of your older sisters reading it.” She smiled down at me. “Elizabeth is a great reader, is she not? Yes, I would be most interested to know what Elizabeth Bennet thinks of Renata.”

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

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