Mary Bennet—who at Longbourn had been wont to hide herself away with a book, shunning the noise created by so many women in the parlour; Mary, her sister awkward in society, from whom they had often fled because her endless discourses consisted only of quotations from the volumes she read; Mary again, who had insisted upon playing the pianoforte though she possessed neither feeling nor mastery—proved to be a very different creature from the first days of her residence at the Academy. Becoming daily more engaged and unexpectedly skilled in many matters, especially those concerning the pupils’ studies, she soon rendered herself indispensable. In a short while, Elizabeth resolved to speak to Mr Clinton on her behalf.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he observed, “our agreement was that you should seek my advice upon the instruction of the girls when you required it; as for the rest, it concerns me not.”
“But Mary is my sister. I would not have you believe that I intend to bring my whole family here.”
“And what harm would there be in that? Mr Bennet has created a rare jewel in you; yet, so that such a gem may shine, it often requires the presence of smaller diamonds about it. I like Miss Mary, and if you desire her assistance, I am certain it is because you trust her.”
“I do,” she replied, surprised herself by the confidence of her tone. But Mary, whom she was only now learning to know, had indeed become the very help she required. Jane came and went, and Elizabeth felt assured that, ere long, she would marry—for that was clearly her aim. In contrast, Mary had found in the Academy the very place where she might blossom. Most remarkable of all was her wish for improvement, which hadshown itself from the first day, when she had appeared neatly, almost elegantly, attired. With every day that passed, Mary grew into a kind and capable woman of uncommon understanding and exceptional instruction. Though at first uncertain how to conduct herself in company, that too came with time. In Elizabeth, she discovered not only an indispensable assistant, but also a companion able to listen and counsel. No sooner had Elizabeth made the proposal than Mary accepted, and the day she removed to the Academy was, without doubt, the happiest of her life until that moment.
Oftentimes, late in the evening, they would sit in Elizabeth’s parlour, take tea, and converse, rejoicing in the quiet that reigned after a day when the whole house had resounded with noise.
“I never thought I should have to concern myself with matters of the household.”
“Indeed? I thought you were destined for nothing less,” returned Mary with a mischievous smile.
Elizabeth laughed. “Do not make fun of me! I had always regarded domestic cares with something like disdain, hoping never to be so engaged as our poor mother.”
“You expected, rather, the grand love that might come galloping on horseback—a lawyer, a vicar, a soldier—so long as he came accompanied by ten servants,” Mary said archly. “You wished to be mistress of your heart and of your household both.”
“Yes, I confess I thought superficially. The expectation of great love darkened my understanding, and beyond the feelings themselves, I could imagine nothing. Marriage is housework too...”
“Without doubt.” Mary’s tone carried the air of profound wisdom, though a sparkle of amusement lingered in it. “And if one has but three maids, like our mother, one must take a broom oneself. But you—I ever saw you married to a man of fortune.”
“Me?” Elizabeth looked at her in surprise. “Not Jane?”
“Yes, you. Jane, for the sake of love, would sweep the parlour and sing happily while doing it.” Mary laughed. “You, on the other hand, spoke always of a gentleman who should admire a woman’s mind as much as her figure—who should wish for a partner, not a housekeeper nor a nursery-governess.”
Elizabeth gazed at her sister in wonder. She had never imagined Mary to observe so shrewdly; she had taken her quietness for indifference.
“I saw you married to Mr Darcy,” whispered Mary with an air of mystery, and Elizabeth’s heart gave a painful start. Inexplicable—or perhaps not—for having Miss Darcy continually near, she felt perpetually embarrassed by the remembrance of her former manner towards him. She would have wished to meet him again and tell him how much she regretted it, for she truly did. Since coming to the Academy, that behaviour had become even more shameful in her own eyes. It appeared to her that she had been superficial and full of prejudice, and she wished to tell him that she had changed; that there was no reason they should be so terrified of meeting again, for if they could forget and forgive what had occurred at the Parsonage, they might yet have some relation—if not of friendship, at least of civility.
At length, she had related to Mary what had passed at the Parsonage, for, having Miss Darcy so often in their company, it was better that such a thing should not be secret.
“You saw me married...you mean, to have accepted his proposal?”
“No, not that. Of that I only learnt lately. I saw you married in the winter, when they were at Netherfield,” Mary replied, sipping her tea with a knowing look.
And again Elizabeth’s heart beat violently in her breast. How could that be possible? At that time, there had been nothing between them—at least not on her side.
“But I did not like him.”
“That I did not know. I saw you together, speaking and laughing, and you did not look unhappy. He liked you, I am certain.”
“Heavens! How can you know such things?”
“I was silent and awkward, not blind.” A spark of spirit flashed in Mary’s eyes, and Elizabeth, moved, took her hand in evident regret.
“No one thought you blind or foolish,” she said softly. “Only that you appeared quite indifferent to all that passed around you.”
“But it was not so. Whilst our mother was busy announcing Jane’s engagement to Mr Bingley, had it been left to me, I should have proclaimed yours to Mr Darcy.”
Elizabeth strove to comprehend and accept what Mary was saying. Never had she thought of such a thing. Surely, when they quitted Hertfordshire, she had regretted, somewhere in her heart, that Mr Darcy had gone without a word—but not as a woman who suffers for love; rather, as a friend who had expected something different.
“When you told me of the proposal, I thought myself half right,” Mary smiled. “He was serious enough in his affection to ask for your hand. I only wonder that you did not perceive how well suited you were—”
“Well suited?” Elizabeth was astonished. “I do not believe we were suited. I should not have accepted him, even had he solemnly declared his love before proceeding to the proposal.”
Mary regarded her with open disbelief. “Perhaps if you had not been so intoxicated by this notion of love, you mighthave discerned that a marriage with a man one esteems may prove happier than one with the grand passion that...passes.”
