Mary Bennet

I shall devote as little space as possible to the melancholy years after Mr Coates’ departure. My memory of much of that time is in any case imperfect. The years when I was most seriously ill, my fourteenth and fifteenth years, are now almost a complete blank to me, and such memories as I do possess may not be accurate. The melancholia which afflicted me was accompanied by delusive sensations. I heard and saw things I now know could not possibly have happened.

That said, I shall return briefly to the winter of my thirteenth year — to the events which took place the week before Christmas and which, alas, I remember all too clearly. The first of these was the return of my four sisters to Longbourn — an event I had eagerly awaited but which proved a most bitter disappointment. They had been absent for exactly eleven weeks. I had crossed off the days on the schoolroom almanack at Lucas Lodge, for Charlotte too had been looking forward to their return. But no sooner had we all sat down together in the Longbourn breakfast parlour than I saw — in the midst of the hubbub and present-giving and embraces — that I was not in the least necessary to the happiness of any of my sisters. I saw that the minds of the two eldest and two youngest were now so perfectly and exclusively attuned as to make them quite closed off to me. I saw, in short, that none of them gave three straws about me — that Jane’s universal benevolence was a matter of course and counted for nothing.

For me, it was as blinding a revelation as ever that experienced by St Paul on the road to Damascus. I had hitherto believed that however much they might prefer each other’s company, my sisters nevertheless loved me — that I dwelt at least in the suburbs of their affections. I now saw that I had been mistaken. I recall sitting before the breakfast parlour fire, staring at Gil Pender’s back — she was roasting chestnuts for us all — in a great terror lest some one of them should speak to me before I had sufficiently composed myself. And then Lydia had cried out: “Good lord! Only look at Mary. She has seen a ghost, I think.”

Had I been able to go to my room that evening and pray and collect myself, all might yet have been well, but the bad weather had delayed the necessary roof repairs and I was obliged to share Elizabeth’s bedchamber, with all the attendant awkwardness such an arrangement entailed. My feelings of exclusion were not helped by our father’s coming twice to the door whilst Elizabeth was unpacking — the first time to make her a present of a book (Madame d’Arblay’s Camilla, for she was once again reading novels) and to tell her how much he had missed her; the second time to bid her goodnight and tell her again how he has missed her and how glad he was to have her home once more. (On this occasion, Elizabeth must have indicated my presence — my bed was concealed behind a folding screen — for after a pause he had said with a sort of laugh: “Yes, to be sure. I had quite forgotten.” Raising his voice then. “Good night to you, Mary.”)

He had come a third time too — but it was to speak to me rather than Elizabeth. He informed me that he had received a letter from Mr Knowles in the morning’s post which he had only that moment thought to open. “I am afraid you must prepare yourself for a disappointment, Mary. Mr Knowles writes that it will not be in his power to return to Longbourn until after Easter.”

And upon my appearing from behind the screen clad only in my nightgown: “Come, child, ’tis not the end of the world. His mother wishes to go to Bath, that is all — but perhaps you would prefer to read it for yourself.”

So saying, he had handed me the letter and left, and Elizabeth — seeing my distress — lit some work candles and bade me sit by the fire so that I might read in comfort, even placing a shawl about my shoulders before turning her attention again to her unpacking. The letter stated merely that Mrs Knowles’s rheumatism had worsened during the recent spell of cold weather and that the doctors advised a course of treatment in the warm baths together with plenty of rest, and — most important of all — the continuing companionship of her son.

My tears flowed in earnest then, and Elizabeth, to do her justice, did her best to console me, sitting beside me and taking my hand. “But Mary,” said she presently. “You have been going on very well with Charlotte these last months, have you not? You have enjoyed taking your lessons with Maria?”

“’Tis not my lessons!” I was now utterly careless of what I said. “He is the only friend I have left — the only person who really cares about me.”

“My dear Mary — you must know that that is not so.”

And here she did a surprising thing — she actually kissed me on the forehead, whereupon I stared up at her open-mouthed, my tears dripping down so that I must have looked a comical sight. She got up then and moved back to her bureau and I concluded that she wished to go on with her unpacking, but instead she took a handkerchief from the drawer and came back and handed it to me, saying: “Is there time for you to pay him a visit before he goes? Should you like me to apply to Papa?”

I thanked her, sniffing, and in a sudden rush of gratitude, said entirely the wrong thing: “I am sure that Mr Coates cared about you a great deal, Lizzy.”

Her expression changed immediately — hauteur replacing affectionate concern. “We will not speak of him, if you please. He is to be forgot.”

She had turned away from me then, but a moment later I glimpsed her face in the bureau glass. She was wearing her wild look — her mouth compressed and her eyes dark. For several minutes she went on with her unpacking before ringing the bell for Gil to take the boxes away. I kept my place at the fireside meanwhile, hoping that she would relent towards me. Instead, she took up her candle saying she must bid Jane goodnight, and although I sat up for a further hour she did not return whilst ever I was awake.

But in the morning, there was no applying to Papa for permission to visit Mr Knowles. While we were dressing, an express came from London — my memory of this is preternaturally clear — and Hill, the new housekeeper, came running upstairs to tell us that she doubted not it was bad news for the master had shut himself away in his library. Jane and Elizabeth had run on ahead of me then — Elizabeth taking the stairs two at a time — and when I reached the library after them, the door was shut fast.

I knocked, and after what seemed a long time (I daresay it was no more than three or four minutes) the door was thrown open and Papa bade me enter. Elizabeth and Jane were the only ones present; they were standing beside Papa’s desk reading a letter. Jane was weeping unashamedly. Papa told me then that little Susan Gardiner was no more; she had been knocked down by a carrier’s cart outside her home in Gracechurch Street. The accident had happened shortly after five o’clock the previous evening when in defiance of the nurserymaid, Susan had run out onto the road to retrieve a ball. She had died some six hours later.

Elizabeth then handed me Uncle Gardiner’s letter. It was brief — a dozen or so neatly written lines — with only the scrawled signature giving a clue to the perturbation of his mind. Susan had not appeared at first to be seriously injured, the apothecary had been confident there were no bones broken, but Aunt had remained anxious — Susan had continued to complain of a pain in her left side — and a physician had been appointed to conduct a second examination. Susan had died before he could attend her.

I could not straight away submit to God’s judgment in all this. Susan was a most loveable, albeit wilful, little girl — impossible to believe that she would never again run off with my spectacles or open the lid of my pianoforte without my leave, or — as soon as Gil’s back was turned — roll down the grassy bank behind Longbourn House in a clean white pinafore. After breakfast — a miserable meal attended only by Kitty, Lydia and myself — I returned to Elizabeth’s room to pray for resignation. Let the Almighty’s will be done. God gives and God takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Elizabeth had happened upon me while I was on my knees, and instead of immediately quitting the room out of respect for my devotions, she had begun opening and closing drawers, saying, “I beg your pardon, Mary, but could you defer your prayers for the present? Jane is to accompany Papa to London, and she is in urgent need of black gloves and ribbons and a great many other things. Could you not try for once to make yourself useful?”

I got to my feet, but before I could ask in what way I might be useful, she went on: “You will be thirteen soon, Mary. You are old enough to anticipate the needs of others — to offer help without being prompted. You know that our mother’s nerves prevent her . . .” (Shutting a drawer with more than necessary force.) “You must know that everything falls upon poor Jane.”

I was shocked that she could speak so to me — as if I were an unsatisfactory maidservant. “But I shall not turn thirteen until May,” I reminded her. “And that is almost five months away.”

She smiled then — one of her sudden smiles so like our father’s — but as I failed to see what she could find amusing, I made to leave the room, saying: “I am afraid I have no black gloves or ribbons. But Jane is welcome to my black onyx cross — the one that Mama gave me to wear at the concert. It is in my trinket box.”

She called after me then — to apologize perhaps — but I was determined not to stay to be bamboozled. I had done trusting Elizabeth.

Downstairs, everything was bustle and confusion. Mama had been thrown into hysterics when the news of Susan’s death was broke to her, and those of the servants who were not engaged in soothing her with sal volatile or taking her tea and toast or chicken broth, were busy getting up mourning clothes for Jane and Papa. Gil Pender, red-eyed from weeping — Gil had been very attached to Susan — was cutting up black crepe to fasten around Papa’s hat, and the younger of the two kitchen maids was running up and down the stairs with armfuls of freshly pressed linen for Jane to pack.

Kitty and Lydia meanwhile were waiting for Gil to take them to call upon the Lucases, and as there was no peace to be found at Longbourn and as I wanted very much to see Maria Lucas, I made up my mind to go with them. But even as I put on my pelisse, I felt guilty. I knew very well I should be helping. And as it turned out I was properly punished, for when we arrived at Lucas Lodge it was to find that the whole family had gone out, and on returning to Longbourn, I learnt that Mr Knowles and his mother had called during my absence. But there was a worse surprise in store. When I walked into Elizabeth’s room I saw that a book had been placed atop my bureau. There was no mistaking the red leather cover, the gold scroll about the title. It was of course the first volume of Renata.

Elizabeth had followed me into the room — ostensibly to collect a black fur tippet for Jane to take to London. “Oh, Mary,” said she, her colour heightened. “I found that book when I was looking for your trinket box. How did you come by it, pray?” And when I did not immediately reply: “Did he — did Mr Coates make you a present of it?”

I could not help remarking: “You told me yesterday that Mr Coates was not to be spoken of. You told me that he was to be forgot.”

It must have galled her to be caught out in so flagrant an inconsistency, and she gave me a furious look before snatching up the tippet: “I am sure it cannot be a proper book for you to read.”

She had left then, banging the door behind her. And for the remainder of that day and for several days thereafter we hardly spoke. No doubt she hoped that I would offer her an explanation, but this I steadfastly refused to do. The book meantime remained where she had placed it — a reminder of our mutual mistrust.

The strain of sharing a bedchamber now became intolerable. I was increasingly nervous about saying my prayers or reciting my nightly portion of scripture, fearful lest she find me on my knees. I cut short my devotions as a consequence, and yet I had never felt the need to commune with my Maker more urgently. I had expected her to remove to Jane’s room after Jane and Papa left for London, and when that did not happen, I offered to move myself.

“Why Mary,” said she in the cool arch tone she adopted whenever anything threatened vaguely to unsettle her: “I had no idea you found my company so oppressive. But have you forgotten that Charlotte Lucas is to come to us on Christmas night? She has kindly offered to help whilst ever Mama remains indisposed and will naturally wish to have her own apartment.”

She had turned back to her book then — to Camilla not Renata — putting an end to further discussion. But I was not prepared to continue in this way. And without much thinking what I was about, I went downstairs and put on my cloak and changed my shoes for thick boots and quit the house. Even though the light was fading, I had decided to set out for Lucas Lodge; there to pour out my troubles to Maria.

It was not snowing when I set out, although very soon afterwards a few flakes began to fall. But I did not regard it, and the cold in no way incommoded me. In my overheated state I even found it exhilarating. The blessed relief of being alone! Of being able to recite the words of the twenty-third psalm as I walked along: The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures . . . I spoke the words over and over, mindful of little beyond the reassuring steam of my own breath and the tears running down my face. Anybody passing would have thought me quite mad.

I still have no idea how it happened. Certain it was that I suddenly found myself to be nowhere near Lucas Lodge. I had all the time been walking in quite the opposite direction. I had taken one of the paths to Netherfield. And as far as I was able to make out — for the snow was by then falling fast — the house appeared to be occupied. But when they found me afterwards — chilled to the bone and still babbling of green pastures — they told me that it had been my imagination.