When Elizabeth retired to her room, she moved around for a time, ensuring her personal items were neat and ready for the next morning. Before long, she began to think of retiring for the night, when another late-evening visitor entered her bedchamber. This time, it was Mary.
“Lizzy,” said Mary, closing the door behind her, and Elizabeth knew at once that this was not a social call.
“Good evening, Mary,” said Elizabeth. “I thought you would be in bed by now.”
The severe face that Mary showed to the world was firmly in place as her sister regarded her. “I confess that I am confused, Lizzy. Though Mama and Lydia and Kitty often indulge in spreading stories about the neighborhood, I had never expected it of you.”
“Do you not recall Sir William asking me about Mr. Wickham?”
Mary shook her head. “That was not the only time you spoke of Mr. Wickham, Lizzy,” replied Mary, crossing her arms in disapproval. “I have watched you these past days—you are careful, but you have spoken of Mr. Wickham on several occasions. What I wish to know is why you have suddenly become such a gossip.”
That was a surprise. Elizabeth had not thought Mary so observant as to notice the comments she had dropped with care—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she had thought Mary too caught up in her own concerns to notice. Mary was not blind—she saw much, a trait common to those who spoke little. For a moment, Elizabeth regarded her sister, noting Mary’s firm jaw, her determination to know why Elizabeth’s behavior had altered. There was no reason not to inform her, for she knew Mary would not run to Mr. Wickham or betray what she learned. In this, she was far more trustworthy than Kitty. Having another ally in this business would also not go amiss.
“Come and sit with me, Mary,” said Elizabeth, going to the bed and sitting on it with her back against the headboard, patting the mattress in invitation. “I shall tell you what I can, but it will take a few moments, so we may as well be comfortable.”
The way Mary looked at her, Elizabeth wondered if her sister believed she was trying to lull her into complacency—it was a diverting notion, but she kept her countenance, not wanting to provoke her sister. After a moment, Mary sighed and joined Elizabeth on the bed, though she sat in apparent discomfort, tense as if she was ready to flee.
“I am... unaccustomed to this, Lizzy,” said Mary. “Such late-night chats are common between you and Jane, but I have never had one.”
Elizabeth's heart went out to her awkward sister, the most overlooked sibling. Mary did not make getting to know her easy, for she kept herself aloof from the rest of the family, but that was as much a consequence of her not fitting in with her sisters as anything else. Elizabeth had Jane and Lydia and Kitty were thick as thieves—Mary was not like any of her sisters, which led to her isolation.
“Then it is about time you had one,” said Elizabeth, taking Mary’s hand and squeezing it. “The subject at hand is not a pleasant one, so this will not be a night for giggling confidences. Some other time, perhaps?”
Though Mary eyed her with some suspicion, she nodded at length, whispering: “I would like that, Lizzy.”
With a nod, Elizabeth began to speak. As Mary was not Kitty, she would not blurt out secrets she should not in a moment of inattention or heightened emotion. Elizabeth could not share the part about Mr. Wickham’s attempted seduction of Miss Darcy with anyone, but everything else she explained while Mary listened, asking few questions and taking in what Elizabeth said with her usual quietude. When Elizabeth laid everything before her, Mary remained silent for some time, considering.
“That is most curious, Elizabeth,” said Mary at length.
“What is curious?” asked Elizabeth, wondering what Mary was thinking.
“Several things, actually. Before you departed for Kent, your opinion of Mr. Wickham was the warmest, and you had nothing good to say of Mr. Darcy. Yet now, only six weeks later, your opinion is the opposite.”
“Not the opposite,” said Elizabeth. “In many ways, I still consider Mr. Darcy’s character lacking. It is only my opinion of Mr. Wickham that has changed.”
Mary shook her head. “Your opinion of Mr. Darcy must have changed, too, Lizzy. The Elizabeth Bennet I knew before Kent would never have listened to anything the man said, would not have allowed his account any truth.”
Feeling defensive, Elizabeth said: “I was notsoinflexible. While I do not claim perfection, I hope that I can concede my errors when I am wrong.”
“No, you are not inflexible,” replied Mary. “Yet, I have never seen you so close to uncompromising as you were about Mr. Darcy. To own the truth, I am more confused that you now believe one and not the other. Was Mr. Darcy so convincing as to persuade you that your former favorite is a liar?”
“Come, Mary, that is not accurate,” chided Elizabeth. “While I will own that I had warm feelings toward Mr. Wickham, he was never ‘my favorite.’ Why, I had scarcely spoken to the man for several weeks before I visited Charlotte.”
“That is because he was pursuing Mary King. Can you honestly say that your warm connection with him would not have continued had he not absented himself in pursuing Miss King?”
It was an observation containing an uncomfortable truth. Elizabeth thought she was not the sort of woman who would yield to the seduction of any man, no matter how affectionate her feelings for him, but she was also aware of the danger ofallowing him to believe he controlled her affections. What might have happened had he remained attentive to her, Elizabeth could not say; but it was clear she could not simply claim she was unaffected by him.
“No, Mary, I cannot,” whispered Elizabeth.
“Lizzy,” said Mary, reaching out to grasp her hand, “do not think I am censuring you. I have the firmest confidence in your morality. What I do not yet understand is why you believe Mr. Darcy and suspect Mr. Wickham, when you previously thought the opposite of them.”
“It is not a simple matter,” said Elizabeth, her slow cadence that of deep thought. “When I heard Mr. Darcy’s account, I thought it the grossest falsehood designed to cast aspersions on a good man. The more I thought about it, however, the more I noticed problems with Mr. Wickham’s account—I had not seen it before, but what Mr. Darcy told me filled in gaps I had not noticed.”
“Such as?” pressed Mary.
“Such as Mr. Wickham’s eagerness to share his tale of woe with me.”
Mary regarded her. “I do not think I have heard this story, Lizzy.”
