A Match for Mary Bennet (3 page)

Arriving at Longbourn before noon on Michaelmas as scheduled, Colonel Fitzwilliam learned of the ball at Meryton's assembly hall. Though tired from travel, he found himself pleased at the prospect after his sombre month at Kent. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see him immediately turn to secure Mary for the first two dances. She held her breath and then rejoiced even more as Mary accepted. One never knew about Mary. Having seen three daughters successfully married, Mrs. Bennet frequently opined that securing husbands for the remaining two would free her to relax quietly at home for the remainder of her days, resting her poor nerves. She could count on Catherine's full cooperation, but Mary, she realized with a sigh, seemed to want to go to each ball as if determined to ignore it and everyone present. She might as well be a hermitess. What great good fortune that Colonel Fitzwilliam would take her quiet Mary into the dance. Only too often her sister, Mrs. Philips, observed, “Poor Mary. What a pity she has not the beauty and liveliness of her sisters. Whatever will you do with her?” This assembly could prove different.

***

In some respects, this assembly proved different indeed. The afternoon clouded over, and a dull rain persisted into the evening, nullifying the whole advantage of the full moon and discouraging Catherine from wearing any of her ribbons, lest they run and stain her hair. Sighing, she too wore the combs Elizabeth had sent from Pemberley. Mary opined calmly that life is not meant to be all pleasure, and Kitty scowled at her ribbonless hair.

On arrival at the brilliantly lit hall, Mrs. Bennet groaned to see Mrs. Long advance toward her with her two plain nieces bent on sitting near Mary. Of course, they would expect to be introduced to Colonel Fitzwilliam. Mrs. Long did in fact show great interest, especially on finding him to be the cousin of Mr. Darcy, the almost legendary, rich landowner who had carried off the “jewel of Hertfordshire,” Elizabeth Bennet. Her joy might have been tempered indeed had she learned that he was not nearly so rich as his cousin, but Mrs. Bennet judiciously withheld that information.

Almost immediately upon hearing the music that announced the dance, Catherine was claimed by the oldest Lucas boy and Mary went to the set with the Colonel. Mrs. Bennet smiled triumphantly at Mrs. Long's two nieces and beatifically at the good Colonel, even as she mouthed in Mary's direction “smile.”

Mary, however, who liked to concentrate on her feet while dancing, could not smile because the Colonel dismayed her by his great willingness to converse. Worse, he insisted on asking questions. “Is this the room where Darcy first saw your sister Elizabeth?”

“Yes, sir, and refused to dance with her.” Mary counted in rhythm to herself, a rising alarm unsteadying her.

Fitzwilliam laughed good-naturedly. “Darcy is not so stuffy these days. Your sister has done wonders for him. You must be very proud of her.”

Mary, reminded of Elizabeth's sacrifice in marrying Darcy, said truthfully, “I am indeed proud of her.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam found Mary a good listener and sounded her out on the subject of marriage. She tersely referred him to Kitty as one who took more interest in the subject than she did. Surprised at her seeming indifference to the state, he opened his mind to her, conscious that she knew two of the ladies he had been considering for marriage. “Do you know Miss Georgiana Darcy?”

“Yes. That is, I met her at Elizabeth's wedding and again at both of Pemberley's Christmas balls.” She closed her eyes and willed him to stop questioning her.

“Do you like her?”

“Very much. She plays the pianoforte beautifully.” Mary glanced down to watch her feet.

“And do you know Miss Caroline Bingley?”

Must this tiresome patter continue? “Oh yes, even better than I know Miss Darcy. She lived with Charles and my sister Jane at Netherfield before they moved to the North.” She hoped her longer answer would satisfy him.

But no, he kept on. “And do you like her as well?”

“Oh no, not as well as Miss Darcy.” Mary knew she was frowning, and she saw that he was too. She must have disappointed him. What could she say? Pope's words about “truth and candour” swam in her mind with her mother's dictum to smile while dancing. She hastened to add, “But Miss Bingley tries to be pleasant, in a regal sort of way.” She had almost said “haughty,” but she caught his eyes on her and did not wish to displease him. “And she plays very well also.” Music was important to Mary's assessment. The dance went on and on, and so did Fitzwilliam. Mary's being able to talk at all while dancing must have been the result of rhythm acquired at the pianoforte. But must this man tax her so?

“I confess, I mean to ask someone to marry me, and I really cannot decide.” Fitzwilliam had not intended to reveal so much, but his brain was more tired than his feet.

To Mary, this was an utterly perplexing problem. “And… must you marry?”

The sour, dispirited face of Miss de Bourgh leaped to his imagination. “Oh yes.”

Mary's feet actually stopped entirely, and she regarded him, eyes wide. It had never occurred to her that a
man
must marry, at least not unless he had incurred the wrath of some lady's family, as Wickham had with Lydia. But this could hardly be the Colonel's situation if he knew not whom to marry. Finally she recovered the rhythm of movement, and after awhile she asked, “And the lady does not matter?” The music drew to a merciful close, and Mary relaxed. She curtsied.

The Colonel took her hand and they walked the long way around to where her mother sat. “Well, more than one would suit my purpose equally well.”

He looked at her and seemed to request a response, but Mary was at a loss. Logical as she wished to be, the problem eluded her. “Then… then I suppose you must choose the lady who would be most pleased to marry you.” She hoped that was reasonable, but she feared his puzzle was beyond her powers and a bit unfair, as it seemed one in which reason played a small part.

Happily, the Colonel smiled as if pleased. “A wonderful solution! You have helped a great deal.” And his gracious thanks as he returned her to her mother rang so genuinely hearty that Mrs. Bennet smiled her pleasure after him.

As he went off to find Catherine, Mrs. Bennet turned her radiant geniality to Mary. “What a noble conquest you have made!”

Mary kept to herself the exact nature of her “conquest,” which would not have pleased her mother. At any rate, the smile soon faded from Mrs. Bennet's face as Mr. Grantley entered the brilliant hall from the dimly lit foyer. “Oh no. There is that odious man!” The young MP who had taken Netherfield's lease irritated all the doting mothers, but as he was not thought handsome, few young ladies minded not receiving his attention. He strutted in as usual, head in the air, preceded by the firm tapping of the walking stick that invariably announced his arrival. Why he bothered to attend every assembly mystified the populace, as he never danced and ignored all the ladies. Worse, he often monopolized more congenial gentlemen who could be escorting some lady; and according to Sir William Lucas, his talk was of spies, informers, and pronouncements of the foreign secretary. According to Mr. Robinson, when Sir William once suggested that Mr. Grantley dance, that strange man had responded dolefully, “I prefer not to encourage young ladies in dangerous frivolities which they seem quite capable of initiating on their own.”

Mrs. Philips joined Mrs. Bennet, and they exchanged sisterly pleasantries at the expense of Mr. Grantley. His sharp nose, his thick spectacles, his long head, the incessant tapping of his stick all came under their scrutiny as defects that would have been overlooked had he made himself more agreeable. Finally they turned the subject to Mary, and Mary slipped away as she heard, “Your Mary danced very well just now. Did I not see her partner at Elizabeth's wedding?”

“Yes. He is Mr. Darcy's cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

“He does not greatly resemble his handsome cousin, does he?” Mrs. Philips asked and then sniffed.

Mrs. Bennet could not let her sister disparage a man who had so gallantly appreciated her daughter. “No,” she said, “I believe he resembles his father, the Earl of Norwich Mills.” She spoke without knowing anything of the resemblance, just conscious that the title would impress. Soon after, Mrs. Philips found reason to rise from her place, and not long after that the information spread generally through the hall. Mothers of presentable daughters came to be introduced, blissfully unaware that the Colonel was a second son. The Colonel's popularity grew apace, and he found himself dancing with more young ladies than he had ever before squired in one evening. Mrs. Bennet soon regretted her unfortunate impulse, as this left Mary at her usual occupation of observation from her post near the refreshment table. Mary did not mind this at all, and that only added to Mrs. Bennet's distress. Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips went into the supper room with Lady Lucas, but Mary had enjoyed tea, fruit, and buns from the refreshment table, and she stayed where she was.

Soon a doubly surprising encounter took place. First, Mr. Grantley left his cronies and their political palaver, tapped his way over to the straight chair next to Mary's, sat down, and addressed her. The second surprise was that Mrs. Bennet missed the whole incident and did not even hear of it until the next day.

That august gentleman commented on Mary's having proved that she could indeed dance. “I assumed all these months that you had not learnt, though your sister dances readily enough. Now I wonder if you find it, as I do, a trivial occupation.”

Mary, not sure whether she had been complimented, insulted, or neither, replied, “Dancing has its place, and a gracious partner can even render it pleasurable. But I am content to watch also.”

His solemn regard wandered off to the few remaining dancers, and he nodded his long head sagely. “For myself I refrain, conscious that young females look upon the activity as a step leading to a husband who will meet their needs and feed their greeds; and even for successful ones, it may easily be an exercise in futility.”

Mary plunged into a silence in which she examined her motives and those of her sisters, and she frowned deeply. Her sisters had met their husbands at such gatherings, of course, and for two of them the marriage had resulted in their needs being met. But she steadfastly refused to ascribe greed to either of them. Jane sincerely loved Bingley, even when she thought he had forgotten her. Elizabeth, it is true, called Darcy proud—insufferably so—but she married him without thinking of herself. Rather, she atoned for having refused Mr. Collins, which forfeited the living of Longbourn. No, it was never greed that led Elizabeth to accept the rich Darcy but contrition and concern for her family, and Mary applauded her selfless action. And what of Lydia, the not-to-be-mentioned eloper? If anything, she married a man who looked for her to feed his greed.

Mr. Grantley raised his eyebrows over his glasses. “You say nothing. Have I offended you?”

“No,” Mary said slowly, “but I question the justice of ascribing greed to all young women. I reviewed my sisters' marriages, and not one of them could have been so. It is a pity you did not know them.”

“And your sister Catherine, does she not seek a well-to-do husband?” He stared at the dancers, possibly at Kitty, whose pink gown whirled prettily, its gossamer net flaring.

Mary glanced at his profile, struck by his pronounced nose, and she followed his gaze to her sister. “Certainly not by dancing with the Lucas boys.” The thought made her smile. “In fact, she has known all the men here since we were children, except for Colonel Fitzwilliam and you, sir. She danced with the Colonel, as I did, because he is a house guest, but surely she would not think of marrying him. He is over thirty!”

“So she does not dance to find a beau? Do you really think so?”

“She does not tonight, certainly. Kitty dances because she enjoys dancing. She has more energy for it than I do, and she finds the exercise agreeable.”

“Perhaps you are too kind in assessing your sister. To me she seems like all the others, smiling ingratiatingly so as to bewitch her partners.”

Mary shrugged. “I speak truth as I see it. But why not be kind? It has often been said that charity begins at home.” What a strange man he was! Had not her mother told her so? She recalled that his first arrival drew curious glances despite his long face, until his melancholy temperament caused most ladies to ignore him as fully as he seemed to ignore them. Even Lady Lucas, who rarely paid attention to any but her family, denounced him as a destroyer of the merriment one looked for at assemblies. He seemed now to be musing solemnly to himself, fingering his watch fob thoughtfully.

He murmured, “And over thirty is too old?” He looked at Mary. “Pray, tell me, what age do you fancy me to be?”

She studied his stern face, judged his question to be serious, and mumbled, “I really could not say. I am no judge of ages.”

Grantley considered that, again eyes on the dancers, and said, almost to himself, “And likely could not care.”

At this moment, Richard Lucas skipped over to Mary and asked her to dance. “Kitty won't dance with me again. She says I was clumsy and broke one of her shoe roses. Miss Mary, won't you?”

Mary sighed and stood, surprised to find that Richard was now almost as tall as she. “Richard, you must first beg Mr. Grantley's pardon.”

Richard did so, with careful politeness. Mary also excused herself, and she took the floor with Richard. He danced well, if anything more carefully than she, and thankfully without talking. Afterward, she complimented him on knowing all the figures and performing them so smoothly. Then she made her way to Maria Lucas, who had beckoned. “Tell me about Colonel Fitzwilliam. Is he really the son of an Earl?”

“Yes. The second son; he is no viscount. But for a cousin of Mr. Darcy he is a remarkably pleasant man.” As Mary spoke she led the way to the supper room, where Maria reported to her mother, whence the question had originated. Mary found her mother, and they called Kitty, as it was time to order the carriage.