A Match for Mary Bennet (10 page)

Mary resented the implied reproach. What right had he to question her behaviour on that or any occasion? “Our cousin, the Reverend Mr. Collins, advised us to consider that girl as one dead, and I have done so.”

“Good Lord! Why do such a ghastly thing? She seemed lively enough to me.”

Mary declined to respond, feeling that Lydia's scandalous elopement was no business to bruit abroad. She kept to herself the memory of how Lydia had shocked all the family while acting as if she had done a clever thing. If now the family all choose to forget about it and act as if her subsequent marriage fixed everything, how will Lydia ever see the error of her ways? Surely Mr. Collins had the right idea. Not knowing just how to explain herself, Mary gave no answer.

Oliver stood by the carriage and handed her in. Inside, he commented, “I sincerely hope that Christ does not, when we behave badly, consider us as dead, though we may well deserve such treatment.” Again receiving no response, he continued, “But seriously, Miss Bennet, you do not consider that your sister has harmed you in any way? As Catherine observed, since you are Mrs. Darcy's sister, you are well received in any society.”

Mr. Shepard, who had raised his eyebrows at the vicar's entering the carriage, looked in after Mary and asked, “Home to Pemberley, miss?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Shepard. Mr. Oliver has some business to discuss, and he will walk back afterward.”

Oliver would not be put off. “Can you not forgive your own sister, who has not really harmed you in any way?”

Mary set her jaw, wishing to drop the subject he would not let go. “Forgiveness is not the question. As you pointed out, she has done me no wrong, nor do I imagine that she has. I am sure Mr. Collins only means for us to act in such a way that will help her to repent before God, which she cannot do as long as she does not acknowledge the transgression.”

“And do you not know, Miss Bennet, that your appearing to bear such a grudge will do more harm than any repentance of hers can do good? Why, as Catherine boasted, Mrs. Darcy's marrying so very well puts the rest of her sisters in a position to marry very well indeed.”

“More fool Kitty. I much prefer to think that Lizzy's sacrifice in marrying as she did frees us from the necessity of marrying at all.” Mary rejoiced to find Oliver silenced at last. Perhaps he had never before realized the plight of dependent single women. She could tell him of sacrifices greater even than Lizzy's and for less fortune. Charlotte Lucas, for instance, had married Mr. Collins without loving him, though she well knew that Elizabeth had been his first choice. That was sacrifice indeed.

At length, Oliver sat back in the swaying carriage and murmured, almost to himself, “Your youngest sister's marriage harmed her more than it did her family, and life will bring her to repentance. Another sister's marriage helped the family more than it did herself? I think not. I do not accept ‘sacrifice' as Mrs. Darcy's lot.” His narrowed dark eyes fixed coldly on Mary. “Observe Mrs. Darcy more closely. I believe she deeply loves her husband. Ask her.”

Mary let him rattle on. What does this gangly stranger know of the matter? Though the rigid hauteur of Mr. Darcy at Hertfordshire was not in evidence here, and Elizabeth did indeed relax in his presence, still Mama had told her often enough how Lizzy had accepted the proud and rigid Mr. Darcy to save the family, knowing Longbourn was entailed away from them to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth was atoning for her refusal of Mr. Collins. Surely Mama knew more about it than this nosy clergyman did. Mary could not forget her first impressions of Darcy, and she remained wary of crossing him. She particularly feared his discovery of the book she had mishandled. In a burst of bravado, she blurted, “Sir, could you examine a book with loose pages on the library balcony? Elizabeth so highly praised your work on their family bible, and once I dropped some pages…”

“The Bunyan work?” Oliver smiled. “I rebound that some weeks ago. You did not notice?”

“I have not dared to touch it for fear of worsening its condition.”

“It was the first book I worked on, and Mr. Darcy never knew. I had heard, from beneath the balcony where I examined some fine Italian volumes, the rustle of paper and your dismayed exclamation. After you left, I searched out the work that Mr. Darcy told me you were reading and spirited it off to work on it, returning it the next day. You did not even miss it?” Oliver's teasing smile, again crooking his ridiculous mustache, irritated her.

“No, sir. For a whole week I could not even look at it on the shelf.” Then Mary sat back, relaxed. She would never have to confess that to the formidable Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Oliver looked away and coughed a bit nervously. “I have begun ill, Miss Bennet. My real thought this evening was to ask if you knew that Mr. Darcy had requested that I accompany you and Lady Elliott when you return after Easter—Lady Elliott to London and you to Hertfordshire.”

Mary had not known. Still, Elizabeth had promised to send someone, but Mary had assumed it might be Mr. Shepard or one of the servants. “No, sir. It is a very long journey.”

“For me, it will be even longer, as he sends me into my native Kent on a summer errand. Reverend Wynters will return to the country then, and he will preside at summer services.”

Mary shrugged. It mattered little to her, but she thought he might have sounded more sorrowful at leaving his parish so soon.

Oliver regarded her solemnly. “I hope this will not interfere with your plans or lessen your comfort.”

She remarked the concern in his voice. “Oh no, sir; Mrs. Darcy told me she would send someone with me, and I believe Lady Elliott is very nice.” Kent… the county name finally reached her consciousness, and she felt she knew the errand. He would be checking on Miss de Bourgh's romantic alliance. Fortunately his primary attentions must go to Lady Elliott, and she need not join much in conversation, or she might find it hard to conceal her guilty knowledge all the way to Longbourn. The carriage slowed in the Pemberley drive, and she realized she may have spoken curtly. “Thank you for the escort—tonight and on the journey to Longbourn. Good night, Mr. Oliver.”

He stepped out, handed her down, and looked at her archly. As he bowed, he intoned, “‘Let truth be free/To make her sallies upon thee and me which way it pleases God.'”

How strange, she thought, as he started off. Then she recognized the quote from
Pilgrim's Progress
, just at the place where the pages came out. She called after him, “And I thank you for mending Mr. Darcy's book too!” She watched him bow to Mr. Shepard, who drove past him to the stables, and then Oliver strode off.

The very next Wednesday, Mary had cause to recall Mr. Oliver's assessment of Emmaline Langley. Practise over, Mary removed her spectacles to address the girls and commend their work. She also reminded them of the times of services during holy week, so that they could make plans to be present. Then she complimented Tom for his work on the bellows, being most happy that he could now attend practises. She was truly relieved that their most difficult motet went well enough that she could be sure of it for Easter. She assembled music to take home for practise and hurried to the staircase. Halfway down, she realized she had left her spectacles on the side of the organ. She sighed, and turned to move back up against the girls coming down. Reaching the top, she saw Emmaline seated at the organ, the spectacles on her nose and her fingers brushing the mute keys deftly. Emmaline removed one hand from the keys, shook her finger at Lucy Ostrom, who, with Dorothy Baker, watched entranced. Her pinched nose gave her voice a nasal tone as she admonished mockingly, “Miss Langley, pay attention there!” Lucy and Dorothy doubled over, laughing.

Mary watched awhile in some amusement from the dark well of the stairway, and suddenly she realized the scene could well have been Lydia displaying the same high spirits, and the resemblance came clear to her. She stepped forward, they noticed her, and a sudden silence grasped the girls. Mary shook her head at the foolishness, and at that moment, it dawned on her that Emmaline's pattern of fingering had had method to it. She exclaimed, “Why, Miss Langley, you really can play the organ!”

Emmaline reddened and jumped off the bench, handing the spectacles out to Mary. “No, Miss Bennet—I play only the pianoforte.”

Mary retrieved her property and put them in her reticule. “If you and Tom both come early next week, I could acquaint you with the stops and pedals, and I dare say you could learn the organ readily enough. Or I could work the bellows while you learn.” What a fine thing if she could train up a successor, one who might relish the position.

Emmaline, still flustered and embarrassed, nodded her agreement. Mary flipped on some stops, went to the bellows, and said, “Let's try. Play what you were playing.” After twenty minutes, Mary determined that Miss Langley would indeed make an organist with a little practise. Knowing that Mr. Shepard awaited her, she excused herself, saying she would come early the next week. She rode home amazed at this “Lydia” who had learned at least the discipline of music.

A fortnight later, the Wednesday before Easter, Mary walked to Kympton thinking of Emmaline, who had progressed nicely. The day at Pemberley had been busy, with grooms and carriages much in demand even late into the afternoon. Darcy distributed Easter gifts to his tenants, Elizabeth visited Jane, and Mrs. Reynolds had sent Shepard on several shopping trips to Lambton. Mary, no horsewoman, happily undertook the walk on such a fine late afternoon. The route had become as familiar to her as the path from Longbourn to Meryton, and it was not a whit longer. Mrs. Reynolds assured her that Mr. Shepard would be there for the return trip as usual, though Mary said she could walk back as well if need be.

The girls and Tom were assembled in the loft when she arrived, and she hurriedly apologised to Miss Langley for not meeting her earlier. While they practised, Mr. Oliver was busy in the church below, walking from workroom to sanctuary, preparing the church for the next day's ceremonies. This kept Emmaline's eyes, if not on Mary, at least in the right direction. Practise went well, possibly because the girls preserved a kind of Sunday decorum or possibly because they enjoyed singing music they now knew well. Even difficult harmonies presented few problems that required their going over it again. Mary did not sing nor had she threatened to do so, though she smiled now, remembering her father's advice. Their Maundy Thursday hymn and ritual music, as well as the more glorious motets for Easter, were refined and polished as fitting for the high holy days.

After asking the group to be on time for the morrow, Mary followed Tom down the creaking spiral of the stairs only to discover that not only was it raining, but no carriage awaited her. Mary shrugged, turned back for the umbrella she kept in the loft, and stamped heavily up the stairs. She did not wish to surprise any more impromptu frivolities. As the girls filed past her, she warned them of the rain. “Be sure to change your boots as soon as you reach home. We want no hoarse voices for Easter!”

Umbrella in hand, Mary ventured out into an evening that was still somewhat light but overcast and dripping. She hoped for clearing, though the aid of the full moon would surely come too late to help her, so she resolutely set out along the road Shepard always used.

Unfortunately, Shepard did not come nor did the rain subside. Instead, the dripping increased to a soaking downpour. Though she was able to hover beneath one of the ample bow windows of the cottage during a particularly heavy spate, Mary arrived at Pemberley a sorry, sodden clump, dripping pools in the foyer. With Polly's ready help, she changed completely for a late supper, but her throat ached and scratched its warning that she, at least, would be hoarse indeed. How fortunate it was that her voice was not needed.

Thursday dawned bright, but Mary found she could not leave her bed. Fever, dizziness, a stuffy head, and muscle aches all attacked at once, and when she tried to stand, she fell back onto the bed. She tried to tell Polly that she must be up and dressed, but no sound came. Polly, though interpreting correctly Mary's intentions, shook her head and left. She returned shortly with Mrs. Darcy, followed by Mrs. Reynolds, who exhorted Mrs. Darcy to leave the sick room, lest she endanger her baby.

Elizabeth did return later, however, and found Mary leaning comfortably on her pillows in half-sleep, having downed the dose of honey, lemon, and spirits that Mrs. Reynolds had ordered. “Mary, Georgiana has agreed to play the organ today for you. She will be up to check with you about what you planned for Maundy Thursday. Here is a pad and pen for a list.” She placed pad, pen, and inkwell on the stand next to her bed. “How fortunate it is that she and Lady Elliott returned so soon from London!” Elizabeth also handed her a small grocer's bag. “Mr. Shepard sent you some mint suck-upons to soothe your scratchy throat, and he begs me to add his abject apology. You just stay here and get well.”

Mrs. Reynolds again shooed Elizabeth from the sick room and sat down beside the bed, the very picture of remorse. “Oh, Miss Bennet, if only I had not sent again to the greengrocer for the additional condiments cook requested for the Easter feast, none of this would have happened. Can you ever forgive me?”

Mary tried to tell her not to worry, but finally just touched her hand. Soon Miss Darcy came to sympathize and to make sure of the day's music, and Mary scribbled out a list. Miss Darcy took it, examined it, and asked, “Is the music here?”

Mary shook her head.

“Is it at the church?”

Mary nodded.

“And I will not need to sing?”

Mary smiled and shook her head, then fell back on the pillows. Lady Elliott came in to add her condolences, and she soon left with Georgiana, who wished to go early to Kympton to see and arrange the music.

Mary slept most of that day and Friday, only partially awake for the onion soup that Mrs. Reynolds fed her every few hours. “Mrs. Darcy wanted to tend you herself, but I insist that she not expose her baby to any possible infection. Besides, your illness is my fault, you poor dear.” Mary smiled wanly, finally growing used to her inability to speak. When even Mr. Darcy came to commiserate, Mary, shocked at his brotherly attentions, actually appreciated her lack of speech, as she did not know what to say to him.

Saturday found her no better. She was vaguely aware of a note and a lovely lily that appeared in her room, and it was only later that she learned they had come from Mr. Oliver at Kympton Saint Giles. Mrs. Reynolds remarked on her red nose and swollen throat, while her continued stuffy head and forced silence warned Mary that she would not be up on Sunday. When it appeared that the Easter music must proceed without Mary, Georgiana came with pen and paper to volunteer timidly for the sunrise service. Mary managed to list the music, but her head was so fuzzy that she could not be sure the order was right. She added at the bottom: “Miss Langley knows. She can help.”

As she looked at the uncertain scrawl before her, Georgiana said, “Would it not be wonderful if you wake tomorrow feeling well enough to go?” Mary smiled and closed her heavy eyelids. That was a resurrection she did not expect, and she did not think Georgiana expected it either.

Mary remained stubbornly ill despite chicken soup from the kitchen, rose-petal syrup and carpenters' herb from Mrs. Reynolds, and reed rhizomes and herbal tisanes ordered by the apothecary. She grew no worse, but her listlessness and other symptoms persisted. Miss Darcy played at both Easter services, and she returned in the afternoon smiling with relief. “It was lovely! Miss Langley helped a great deal, and the sermon moved me deeply. If I had not been nervous, I might have enjoyed the whole morning. Lady Elliott appreciated Saint Giles too and said Mr. Oliver is an uncommonly good preacher.” She looked pityingly into Mary's pale face and disheveled brown hair framed in the immense pillows. “Are you no better today, Mary? The sun is so bright.”

Mary squeaked feebly from her propped-up position. “Perhaps.” A barely audible sound emerged, and she smiled, hoping for some improvement soon.

“Mr. Oliver sent you this, in gratitude for your work in preparing the choir so well.” Georgiana held out a package in plain wrap as for the post. Mary frowned intently, and she elbowed herself higher in the bed. She slipped off the loose wrapping to find a fine bound volume and a note.

She read: “I asked young Tom to copy this music for you to keep. He fancies himself a composer, so it was good practise for him. I hope our choices were happy ones. Steven Oliver.”

Mary turned the pages slowly, reverently. Damon's “Have Mercy, Lord, on Us”; Cruger's “In the Cross of Christ I Glory”; Bach's “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring”; hymns by Herbst, organ pieces by Bach, Hassler, Gardiner, Wesley, Hodges; and some lively folk tunes at the end. It was truly a magnificent collection and all in one book. “What a treasure!” Mary exclaimed, and it came out in a frog-like whisper, but audible. “How can I ever thank them?”

“You can get well. That would please us all.”

Mary did indeed feel some sign of improvement—enough to wish she could move to the music room with her new folio. And in a few days she did just that, delighting in the firmness of the binding, the easily-turned pages, the sure way each page remained flat and open on the stand at the pianoforte. She had seen no such book before, and she wondered if it was a binding of Mr. Oliver's original invention. She sent a note in praise of his and his pupil's work.