A Match for Mary Bennet (15 page)

On Saturday, Mary awoke early, finding that the fire in her room had died. The overworked inn servant being unavailable, she dressed quickly and ventured downstairs. The large room, strangely silent after the previous evening's revelry, exuded welcome warmth. Apparently many sleepers had been accommodated in the room, some of whom still slept on straw pallets by the door. Rain drummed steadily on the windows near the secluded table she chose, far from the sleeping travellers. The innkeeper came to her with rasher and eggs and coffee, which she begged him to exchange for tea. When he brought the tea, he gave her the unwelcome news that the Hertfordshire post was mired near Saint Albans. “The postillion rode in during the night for help, but no carriage can start that way until after the rain stops.”

When Mr. Oliver joined her later, she broke the ill tidings, still fearful that he would greatly rue having delayed his departure to accommodate her ease. On the contrary, Oliver showed no discomfort or hurry. “We must thank God your man Wilkins was spared so perilous a journey.” After breakfast, Oliver located a set of draughts and challenged Mary to a game. She had not played in years, and he claimed the same unfamiliarity, yet he won every game. At length, they passed the draughts on to two men who had been unobtrusively and unsuccessfully attempting to improve Mary's strategy. By then the inn again resounded with tales of upsets along the rutted and mud-softened roads, mishaps, delays, and near disasters. Toward evening, the flow of ale slowly turned an atmosphere of comradely misfortune into raucous hilarity alternating with angry shouts.

Mr. Oliver again contrived to shield Mary from the worst of the clamor. He found a relatively quiet corner, darker than they liked, but secluded. There, he coaxed her to describe her summer at Longbourn. She told him of Lydia's short visit and abrupt departure, of Mrs. Long's nephew and his music for duets, of Mr. Grantley and his just-for-appearances walking stick. Then she watched for his reaction as she added, “For the first week Kitty remained at home, and she told me of once walking Pemberley's grounds with you. You pointed out the snow-covered coppice wood as icing on a giant cake. She believes you have a poet's eye.” Mary had hoped that the poet's eye, something she had not herself ever witnessed in the vicar, indicated some interest in Kitty. Surely Catherine would be superior to Emmaline Langley as suitable helpmate for a churchman. “It is unfortunate that you have been from Kympton in these weeks that she has been at Pemberley, else you may have come to know her better. And the great pity is that when you finally reach Kympton, Kitty will likely be at Norfolk with the Darcys.”

“And will she not return there after the wedding?”

Mary found this question heartening. “Perhaps not. At least she will not be there long, as she returns to Longbourn with Papa and Mama.”

Oliver was disappointingly unmoved by this answer. Even worse, he returned the subject to her first information. “May I assume that you did not meet your youngest sister with silence when she visited?”

Mary felt her face heat up. “No indeed.” Should she tell him that she feared he had guessed correctly about her, that Lydia had laughed much, but only in sport? Had she learned to pity this sister tied to a ne'er-do-well for life? “Lydia seemed to have lost interest in former friends and neighbours. In some ways, I pitied her.”

Oliver showed his gentle smile. “Of course, we will not talk of forgiveness. But pity… it is a start.”

“Oh, as to forgiveness, I never fancied myself injured. And in general, my thoughtless inattention to others puts me more in need of forgiveness than of bestowing any.” She looked off to the noisy end of the room and added softly, “In fact, on account of it, God may withhold forgiveness from me.”

She had not thought Oliver would hear that, but he sat up straight, his eyes shadowed, yet with a piercing gleam. “Why should that be?”

“Do we not pray, ‘Forgive us… as we forgive'? And I have not had reason to forgive, and to try to do so seems putting myself above some person who, as Jane always says, probably never intended to offend. Certainly thoughtless Lydia never did.”

“What a singular notion!” Mr. Oliver paused, looking off into the distance. He returned his gaze to her, saying, “Consider rather that you forgive so readily that it happens before you even note any offence. Or because of your automatic forgiveness, you take no offence. In the same way, God's forgiveness can reach you even before you realize that you need it.”

The intricate notion swam in her head, muddled with the stale air and damp mustiness of the inn. She knew not what to make of it, but it sounded vaguely hopeful, and she thanked him. She added, suddenly noting that rain no longer pelted the windows, “I do hope we may continue our travel tomorrow, though it is Sunday.”

Mary, whose back was to the inn door, felt a fresh breeze as someone must have entered. At the same time, Oliver sat up, rigid and alert. Several loud voices hailed the late arrival curiously, asking about roads and rain. A man answered that the rain had stopped, and the wind being strong, guessed that roads may soon improve, though they were still soft. An order for ale all around greeted this welcome news, and shortly the newcomer, apparently desirous of privacy, came to a table just behind a coarse wooden pillar very near Mary and Oliver. She heard a chair scrape back and then another, and realized there must be two. Mr. Oliver, his eyes in their direction, shrunk back deeper into the shadows. Mary did not look around, thinking such curiosity improper for a lady. At any rate, the murky air and the thick post would likely prevent her seeing. But soon a placating voice quite familiar to Mary said, “Do not worry. You will have it soon. My wife did not succeed in Hertfordshire, but she will fare better in the North. Her sisters have not laid down rules as her father has.”

Wickham, of all people! And in London, though Lydia said she had left him with his northern regiment. His speech certainly explained her sudden departure from Longbourn. Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Oliver raised his hand to silence her. He seemed to be looking around as if to make a quiet exit, but their corner was far from either stairs or door. He shrugged and mouthed the word “wait.” The vicar seemed suddenly to have lost all his good humour, and his frown would have silenced her even without his impertinent gesture. Wait they did, while Mary formulated many warnings for Kitty about this volatile gentleman.

Meanwhile, the men behind her argued, though Mary heard little from the unknown man, whose voice, whining and low, only sporadically rose above the uproar over by the dying fire. He demanded money of Wickham, so likely he was one of the gamesters or tradesmen to whom Wickham owed money. Could Wickham be trying to escape from his regiment and this fellow followed him? She caught a bit of the stranger's plea. “… as good as done… keep up appearances… old one dies… money.” They were strange words if money was owed, but the request for money was plain enough.

Wickham, closer to her, sighed—a long, not-quite-patient groan. “I can give you no more than a guinea at present, but more is coming. Be patient.”

The other man muttered some more, then asked, during a lull at the fire, “Have you taken orders yet?”

“No. That takes money too, you know, and once you are married will be soon enough for that.” He spoke as with authority, as if he were somehow in charge. That puzzled Mary.

The other man grew excited, and he shouted some parts of his response. “… sooner than you think… collapsed last night… surgeon not sanguine… Why do you think I contacted you?… need serious money… ready… dismiss the fat idiot…” The whole transaction began to sound more like one of Wickham's harebrained schemes than a debt of any kind. Mary pitied Lydia indeed now, since it seemed that she must somehow fund it. Still, if he means to take orders, perhaps Wickham intends to stabilize his life, and Lydia must benefit from that. It could do Wickham no harm to come closer to the church.

Wickham, speaking more seriously but still commanding, said, “No gifts are needed. You were certain of her last week, and you have no rival, surely.” At this, he laughed sneeringly, and the other man joined in.

The other voice replied, “No, no one… fine lady… ready… take your place soon.”

Wickham must have left the regiment and was to take a new place soon. As a clergyman? What a fine thing for Lydia if it should be permanent! But so much of this talk was unintelligible to her that Mary resolved to dismiss it all from her mind. If his situation improved, Lydia would boast of it in time.

Meanwhile, Mr. Oliver, his fists against his forehead, seemed to be in pain. At the sight of his knuckles white in flickering candlelight from the table, Mary tried to remember what she had heard of apoplectic fits, and she whispered, “Are you ill, Mr. Oliver?” He shook his head and again put out a hand to silence her.

Wickham was promising to send an order express to his wife to approach her brother for money for his schooling, since he had a ready position. Mary wondered why he could expect Bingley or Darcy to support him in some career, but his speech to the other man was full of assurance about it. The two, more companionable now, chuckled over some expected good fortune. Again Mary took heart for Lydia's sake if it were so. Mary heard one chair scrape back, then the other, and the candle went out. “Not so good as the living I should have got, but it will do.” With that, Wickham led his companion back to where the ale flowed. They ordered more, then dropped their mugs on the table noisily and strode out into the night.

Mr. Oliver arose then and guided Mary to the stairs, where she asked him what he made of that extraordinary conversation. “Surely it reflected no credit on either gentleman. Did not you think so?”

They reached the upper floor before he replied. “As your friend Bunyan says, ‘I wish I could speak truth in speaking better of them.'” Mary, hoping that his sombre feelings had lifted, laughed. But Oliver merely added sadly, “Nor can I now speak or think well of myself.”

Mary's bewilderment showed in her puzzled expression. “But you said nothing whatever.”

Oliver's smile lacked cheer. “In that forced eavesdropping, I was obliged to learn that I am an unspeakable fool to think I can judge character, and how I will suffer for my ignorant presumption!” Then he bade her to prepare to leave very early on the morrow.

Mary remained perplexed, and since she could not sleep, she tried to make sense of all she had heard. She too took herself for a fool in supposing she had known the vicar's errand at Kent. Surely it must have concerned Wickham in some way. But why would Darcy not have disclosed Wickham's erratic character to him? If he had done so, Oliver could not now be blaming himself for misconstruing it. Then she recalled how artfully Wickham had insinuated himself into society at Hertfordshire, earning a reputation superior to Mr. Darcy's over a short time. She finally dropped off to sleep after arriving at some dim sense of it all.

The next morning's ride in strained silence increased Mary's conviction of the vicar's moodiness. She glanced out the window, saw many muddy patches alongside and ahead of the carriage, and she ventured a guess at his worry. “Do you think the liveryman will be able to avoid miring us? Perhaps we may be required to push the carriage out of a mud hole.”

Oliver started from his brooding. “No, Miss Bennet. I believe we are safe.” The vicar resumed his look of tense preoccupation. Mary left him to his misery, whatever it was, and directed her gaze out the window again. When they reached an inn where the horses were changed, Oliver handed her out, still in silence.

She glanced at his drawn face and guessed he had not slept. Perhaps he had gallantly offered her the only comfortable room at last evening's inn. “Mr. Oliver, I thank you for providing so well for me. I was able to sleep well indeed.”

Oliver nodded absently. “I am glad, Miss Bennet. I cannot say the same for myself, though the bed was fine.”

She congratulated herself on guessing at his lack of sleep, but she had apparently mistaken the cause. Her thoughts went to the conversation they had witnessed and to Oliver's blaming himself afterward for misinterpretation of the wily Wickham. That had seemed to bother him, and she hoped to restore his ease. “It is hard indeed to understand the machinations of a mind bent on deception, is it not, sir?”

His eyes opened wide. “How right you are, miss. And worse when one's only duty was to uncover that very deception and the attempt was bungled.” He lapsed again into dullness, and she despaired of trying to lighten his mood again. Again she puzzled over Darcy's strange request. Surely he knew Wickham better than anyone else. Why send a stranger to report on him? She gave it up. She did not understand Darcy, and the ways of men were far beyond her ken. In fact, she hardly understood women! Fortunately they were not far from Meryton, and she could walk home from there if she had to.

In the end, she did not have to. Not only the rest of the Bennets, but Mary herself was surprised to arrive at Longbourn on Sunday afternoon. Mr. Oliver, anxious over something and eager for Derbyshire, hired a private carriage at Saint Albans to take them immediately to Longbourn, where he stayed only long enough to be sure that all Mary's things were carried into the house. There he apologised for allowing little time for rest or breakfast, excused himself, and went off. Mary firmly resolved to warn Catherine to forget that volatile man. Such a changeable man must be more suitable to the young and frivolous Emmaline after all than he was to Kitty.

At Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet proudly showed her the elegant invitation. “Just look at the embossed coat of arms! The Earl himself must have given the invitation though you see the note inside is in Bingley's hand. Such an amiable man! See how fine the sentiment is? Oh, the envelope too has the embossed insignia! And they are to be married in Norwich Cathedral. Caroline Bingley must be proud indeed. Just look Mary—we are to stay at the Earl's estate at Norwich Mills! We are to be guests of the Earl himself!”

“And the happy couple will be staying there too? And Jane and Lizzy?”

“Oh, yes. Happy couple indeed! Don't you know that you could have been the bride yourself? Why did you not work harder to please him after he was so impressed with you at the assembly?” Mary did not reply, but soon Mrs. Bennet again gloried in the prospect of actually staying under the roof of the earl. “I don't believe even Sir William Lucas has stayed at an earl's estate! Mrs. Philips is quite put out that she has not been invited, but I dare say even a castle could not accommodate all the relations of the Bingleys and the Fitzwilliams. I understand Mr. Darcy is to attend the groom, so in a way, we are related to both bride and groom. How fortunately our dear girls have married!” Mrs. Bennet's high spirits abruptly changed again, and she frowned a bit and added petulantly, “However, neither of my daughters has a title. I suppose Miss Bingley counts herself clever indeed to have carried off the son of an earl. A pity it is, as long as she was to have him, that Miss Bingley did not marry him years ago. Then my dear Jane and Bingley would not have left Netherfield. I am certain it was she who goaded Bingley into moving near Pemberley. What a disobliging, arrogant woman she is! The Colonel could surely have done better. And such airs she puts on—I wonder how she will bid us address her now.”

Mary moved to calm her. “Mama, she will be Mrs. Fitzwilliam, no matter how she wishes to be addressed. It is the Colonel's brother who is viscount, and Mr. Darcy often says the Colonel neither possesses nor desires a title. But he does have a nice little property near Castlebury, and Miss Bingley may enjoy being thought a great lady in Castle Park. Still, Pemberley is much greater, Mama. You may be assured that Lizzy fares much better.” Mary admitted to some curiosity about the earl's Norfolk estate, but she felt no real eagerness. It was unlikely she would get to explore the Norwich Mills library.

Mary, according to Mr. Bennet's plan, would return from the wedding with the Bingleys to begin her visit in Nottingham. Catherine, who was attending the wedding with Elizabeth, would take Mary's place in the Bennet carriage and return to Longbourn. As the time to leave approached, Mary found herself eager for the journey, and she wondered if her penchant for quietly staying at home had given way to a need for excitement, like her mother's. She did not think she was eager for the pomp of the wedding, nor did she relish a visit from James Stilton, who had promised to visit at Nottingham. For whatever reason, Mary enjoyed packing again for a visit of some months, supposing she would not return to Longbourn until after the Bennets visited Pemberley for Christmas. A bit guiltily, she even packed her best gowns.