Mary Bennet: A Novella in the Personages of Pride & Prejudice Collection (12 page)

Worse, Mary danced in the arms of a gentleman who was not her intended, and she enjoyed it. Her heart raced, and her face flushed. Sensations skittered from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

When the last chord sounded, Mary was surprised. She and her partner had completed two dances with barely a word spoken between them, and nary a quotation to be had.

Now, as he escorted her toward her mother, Mr. Hardcastle slowed his pace and leaned ever so slightly closer to her ear.

“Miss Bennet,” he said softly, “do not forfeit your own happiness for any reason. My greatest desire is to see you truly happy.”

Mary felt his breath whisper against her neck, causing that tingling sensation to descend her spine again.

She turned her wide eyes upon Mr. Hardcastle, and the other occupants of the ballroom seemed to vanish into a misty dream. Her steps halted of their own accord.

“I do not believe I shall ever be happy,” Mary admitted.

“Do you not, Miss Bennet?” Mr. Hardcastle asked. “You deserve happiness, and you must do what is necessary to attain it.”

Mary could not find the proper response.

“No matter what you choose,” Mr. Hardcastle said, “I shall remain your friend.”

“And I shall remain yours,” Mary whispered, her voice hitching.

“You know where to find me,” he said, “if you should require me.”

Then, they were walking again, and Mary was delivered safely to her mother.

Sixteen

“Two partners in one evening!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed after Mr. Hardcastle departed. “How very fortunate for you, Mary.” She paused and considered her daughter for a quick moment. “You do look quite lovely, despite your hair. Your coloring is rather radiant in this light. I do believe your engagement agrees with you.”

Mary felt herself flush again, for she knew that her high coloring resulted from her conversation with Mr. Hardcastle and not from her engagement to Mr. Randall. If anything, her color would turn wan upon thinking of Mr. Randall and his mystery woman.

She glanced over her shoulder to find the gentleman in question approaching from the opposite end of the room. She whirled back to Mrs. Bennet. Perhaps her mother’s tactless nature could prove useful.

“Mama,” Mary whispered, “will you arrange for Mr. Randall to call upon us?”

Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands with delight. “Why, of course, my dear! You are ever so in love with him, are you not? You cannot be without your betrothed for another day.”

Squelching the temptation to demand that her mother lower her voice, Mary cringed and whispered, “It is only that I should like to speak privately with Mr. Randall.”

Again, Mrs. Bennet misinterpreted her meaning. She giggled loudly. “You desire a romantic rendezvous before you marry. How delightful!”

“Mama!” Mary exclaimed, preparing to correct her. Then, her lips fell silent as she recalled her mother’s reaction when Lizzie had rejected Mr. Collins’s proposal. The memory of shrieked demands and claims of sick headaches returned to Mary with alarming clarity. With Mr. Randall approaching, she could not risk such a display.

Moreover, Mary realized she could not confide her fears in her mother at all, for the merest hint that her engagement to Mr. Randall was in danger would send Mrs. Bennet into a true panic. It was best for her to continue to believe that Mary’s future was arranged to everyone’s satisfaction.

But Mary’s future had never been in greater peril.

The marriage settlement had already been drawn and signed, legally transferring ownership of all Mary’s property, including Mr. Darcy’s gift, to Mr. Randall. Mary could not so much as dispose of a gown without potential repercussions from the Randalls. Mr. Bennet had signed away both his money and Mr. Darcy’s.

And monetary loss was not the only damage she might cause.

Reputations also would be shattered.

Attempting to end the engagement would lower Mary’s place in society and destroy her only chance of gaining a husband in the future. Worse, rather than being seen as the respectable, accomplished young lady she dreamed of being, Mary Bennet would be viewed forever as a pariah, a jilt, a foolish girl who had squandered her one chance at happiness.

She would be no better than her silly sister Lydia.

Mary’s shoulders slumped. She had only herself to blame. She had always wanted to be seen and appreciated for her accomplishments, and she had acted to please her parents and to raise herself in the esteem of the town by marrying Meryton’s most sought-after bachelor. She had never considered the possibility that attaining her dream might bring her such potential for unhappiness.

Her mother’s voice yanked Mary from her consternation.

“Oh! Mr. Randall,” Mrs. Bennet enthused. She gave her daughter a stern look before turning back to the gentleman. “Do not mind my daughter. She was deep in thought about your wedding, I am sure.”

“I—I,” Mary stammered. “I was thinking of our future.”

“You cut quite a dashing figure on the dance floor, Mr. Randall,” Mrs. Bennet continued, oblivious to Mary’s discomfort. “If you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You are all kindness,” replied Mr. Randall, bowing to her slightly. “I fear you are too generous, for I am well aware of my flaws.”

He glanced sidelong at Mary, and she thought she might have read guilt in the quick look.

“Well, we see no such flaws,” Mrs. Bennet protested, looking to her daughter for support. “Do we, Mary?”

Burdened by the weight of her situation, Mary could not manage to compose a reply and fell back on what was comfortable. “We are told to ‘judge not,’ and so I shall keep silent on the matter.”

“Mary!” her mother shrieked, dismayed by her daughter’s implication.

Mr. Randall smiled crookedly at her. “What a kind way of agreeing with me, Miss Bennet. It is no secret that dancing is not among my greatest talents, as I have often been told.”

Mary studied her would-be husband. He did not seem to be the sort of gentleman who would flaunt his unfaithfulness or steal a young woman’s dowry. He seemed perfectly agreeable, even now. But that could not be.

“Do not listen to my daughter, sir,” Mrs. Bennet said. “She is overtired from dancing, for she has never had so many partners in one evening. You must come and see her again after she has taken the opportunity of resting. Perhaps later in the week you would do us the honor of paying a visit to Longbourn.”

Mr. Randall looked to Mary and smiled again.

“I would be most happy to call upon you, Miss Bennet, if you wish it.”

“I do,” Mary said, for they had much to discuss.

Seventeen

On the day Mr. Randall was to call at Longbourn, Mary found herself alone at the pianoforte, still pondering what she ought to do and say to her betrothed. Her fingers caressed the keys, but she hardly heard the resulting music.

How she wished she might discuss the matter with her mother or father, but surely they would only encourage her to hold her peace and marry Mr. Randall as planned. That was the sensible choice.

Mary longed to be sensible and rational, but she must discover the truth about the young woman. Though many wives seemed to coexist quite peacefully with a philandering husband, Mary knew herself well enough to be aware that she would not. Marrying a gentleman who loved another—whose eyes were ever focused on another—would be an unendurable fate. The town would pity her, and in her own household, she would be all but invisible. No one, not even her husband, would look upon her.

Though she had never contemplated the prospect of love, she must do so now. If Mr. Randall could not love Mary, then, at the very least, he must not give his heart to another woman. Mary could not bear knowing that with each look at her—his wife—he would be wishing another woman sat in her place.

Even if it cost everything, Mary would not allow that to happen.

She winced. She might very well lose her reputation and her place in society. As she once said of her sister Lydia, “Loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable—that one false step involves her in endless ruin—that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behavior toward the undeserving of the other sex.”

What a dreadful coincidence that her own moralization now applied to her.

A knock sounded at the door, and she knew Mr. Randall had arrived.

Mary’s heart began to race. She must go destroy her brittle reputation.

The best place to destroy one’s reputation is in the beauty of God’s creation. Before Mr. Randall could enter Longbourn, Mary suggested a walk. She had no patience for her mother’s enthusiasm today. She must conduct her business and be done with it.

But how ought one begin such a conversation? Mary was well aware that there must be some technique for lessening the impact of sensitive topics, but she could not call it to mind.

Flustered, she stopped mid-stride and turned abruptly to Mr. Randall.

“Though I know it is utterly uncouth, I must speak plainly with you, Mr. Randall, and I wish that you would return the favor by answering with candor.”

Mr. Randall tilted his blond head to the side, studying her with a fearful intensity.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe we ought to be able to speak openly now that we are finally alone.”

“Come,” she said, leading him farther into the garden and away from the house. “Let us go where we might not be overheard.”

Together, they settled upon a weathered stone bench on the fringes of the garden.

“Why did you propose to me, Mr. Randall?” Mary began, not bothering with pleasantries. “We were hardly acquainted before your letter.”

Mr. Randall appeared unsurprised by her topic and answered immediately. “I suppose I proposed for the same reason that you accepted: it was what ought to be done.”

Mary’s stomach revolted at the very idea, but she nodded at Mr. Randall, grateful for his honest response. She was determined to reply with equal forthrightness. “We are doing our duty to our families. I am relieving my parents of the last daughter in their care.”

“And I am gaining the money necessary to return Ashworth to rights.” He inclined his head to her. “And we both acquire a pleasant companion.”

Mary scowled but quickly schooled her features into neutrality. Mr. Randall truly was a kind gentleman, but she wanted more than a “pleasant companion.”

“Forgive me, but I must ask—is there another of your acquaintance whom you might have married if your circumstances had been altered?”

Mr. Randall blanched and looked away. Mary interpreted that as confirmation and was preparing to probe deeper into the situation when he surprised her by saying, “I intended to ask the very same question of you.”

Mary’s eyes widened, and she gaped at the side of his head.

“I do not take your meaning, sir,” she admitted, feeling panic rise in her throat. “Do you mean to accuse me of—”

“No, no,” Mr. Randall said earnestly, turning toward her again. “Please do not believe me to be making these statements as accusations. I assume you did not mean to accuse me of wrongdoing.”

“Certainly not,” Mary replied. “I do not care to engage in dramatic accusations.”

“Good.”

Their gaze broke, and Mary found herself studying the toes of Mr. Randall’s boots. Birdsong filled the silence for long minutes while they both gathered their courage.

Finally, Mary spoke, her voice slow and careful. “I merely wanted to ascertain whether this marriage contract was drawn too hastily.”

She dared not look at him. Had she incited his ire? Had she insulted him? Would he now rail at her?

At length, Mr. Randall’s voice came, also careful and steady through the soft sounds of the garden. “And perhaps the match was made against the wills of those it involved directly.”

“Yes,” Mary agreed, chancing a look at his face.

She discovered Mr. Randall to be watching her with neither anger nor sorrow in his expression. He leaned forward and took her hand in his.

“Tell me, Miss Bennet. Do you wish to marry me?”