Chapter 9
The party that departed from Mrs Phillips’s house soon divided into two groups: the greater part of the ladies remained in Meryton to make purchases, while Elizabeth chose to return to Longbourn. In truth, she felt the need for solitude, that she might reflect upon her present perplexities.
“Lizzy, may I walk with you?” asked Mary quite unexpectedly.
Elizabeth was on the point of declining—to find any excuse to be alone —yet altered her intention. Mary seldom sought the company of her family, and such an instance ought not to be wasted. She took her sister’s arm, and they began the walk together, ignored by the rest.
For a time, the sisters walked in silence. Yet Elizabeth soon perceived that Mary wished to speak, though she knew not how to begin. As curious as it seemed, her interest appeared centred upon Miss Henry—a matter to which, since the first moment of its mention, Mary had attended with an unusual and marked concern, quite at variance with her usual manner, which was to remain aloof from the family’s daily affairs.
“Is it Miss Henry you wish to speak of?”
Mary turned to her with a look full of admiration. She loved Jane for her kindness and took little notice of Kitty or Lydia, but Elizabeth was different. She admired her sister’s merits and longed, though timidly, to draw nearer to her. Yet, shy by nature, she had let pass many occasions on which Elizabeth had opened the way. Each time she missed her chance, she resolved to read more, that she might, by diligence alone, become Elizabeth’s equal.
“Yes,” she said softly, blushing deeply. Her face was so coloured that Elizabeth feared she might faint. They halted by a low stone bench on the road to Longbourn and seated themselves.
“Come, my dear,” Elizabeth said kindly, “if you have something to tell me, there is no cause to be uneasy. Speak freely. I am your sister.”
Mary nodded, gathering her courage. She knew there would be no better moment in which to confess what weighed upon her.
“I have done something dreadful,” she said at last, her eyes cast down. Elizabeth smiled, without the least trace of mockery—only affection. What great harm could Mary have done? Misplace a book? Break a teacup?
“My dear girl, I do not believe you capable of anything truly dreadful. Tell me the tale, and we shall decide together what is to be done.”
Mary drew a breath and nodded again. “You may not know, but Mr Bingley granted me leave to use the library at Netherfield.”
Elizabeth did not know it, but it struck her as not improbable, for they had passed some time at Netherfield during his stay.
“I was unaware,” she said gently, “but he was our friend.”
“No, you do not understand. I knew nothing of his regard for Jane—”
That was unsurprising. Mary seldom observed the feelings of others.
“He gave me permission to use the library a week or two before the ball when he surprised me…hidden among books when everybody was in the parlour having a good time. He spoke to his housekeeper and bade her allow me access whenever I should wish.”
This was indeed something new. Elizabeth looked at her sister with renewed attention, and suddenly she saw Mary in a different light. Mary loved books, and the Netherfield collection must far exceed their own in both number and variety. Yet Elizabeth, knowing the delicacy of the situation between Jane and Mr Bingley, would never have ventured there in his absence.
“Then, in time, I came to understand that Mr Bingley…”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “He never returned to Netherfield, and much was left unsettled.”
“Just so. I understood this only after several visits to the library, where I borrowed and returned books.”
“So you mean to say that you visited Netherfield after Mr Bingley’s departure.”
“I did. But Papa knew. I told him, and he smiled in that curious way of his, and said that so long as I kept the matter private, there was no harm in making use of the library.”
“I imagine,” Elizabeth said gently, “that this is not the principal matter of your confession.”
“No.” Mary gave a faint smile. “Miss Henry is Mrs Sophia’s daughter.”
Had the heavens opened and celestial beings descended, Elizabeth could scarcely have been more astonished.
If the skies had opened and angels had appeared in front of them, Elizabeth would have been less astonished. “What are you saying, Mary? Are you certain?”
“Certain? No. But there are too many signs for it to be a mere accident or coincidence.”
“Wait—begin at the start, and tell me every particular,” Elizabeth cried. She studied Mary carefully. She was sincere, intelligent, and entirely without guile. If she claimed to have found something, then it must be of consequence.
