Mary Bennet: A Novella in the Personages of Pride & Prejudice Collection (14 page)

“Oh, Mary,” he said, looping an arm around her shoulders. “Surely, there is no way one family can have the good fortune of extricating itself from two such events. First Lydia and now this.”

His voice held a mixture of concern and amusement that caused Mary to look at him sharply.

“Even this has not angered you, Papa?”

“Well, I wish you had spared me the trouble of it all.” He gave her shoulder another squeeze. “It is very likely that Mr. Darcy’s dowry will be lost. Your brother-in-law will certainly be displeased at the careless use of his funds.”

Mary felt tears gathering in her eyes. Despite her father’s light treatment of the situation, a great deal more was now lost to her than ten thousand pounds and Mr. Darcy’s approval.

She had forfeited her potential for happiness.

And so much more.

While Mr. Randall would be free to marry Miss Latimer, Mary would never wed.

And while the elder Mr. Randall would yet receive Mr. Darcy’s money, Mary would be poor for the rest of her days. Worse, she would forever be a disappointment, shuffled off to one of her sisters’ homes to be forgotten.

In fact, the ostracism had already begun. Since the news broke, Mary had received no invitations to social events, and few people paid morning calls to Longbourn, leaving Mrs. Bennet quite put out.

After the day when Mr. Randall stormed out, Mary spent a great many hours at Mrs. Bennet’s bedside, where she endured nearly constant blame for the manner in which the Bennet family had been brought low.

Even now, she sat in a small wooden chair in her mother’s chamber and listened to another tirade.

“I do not understand it, Hill,” Mrs. Bennet said, stuffing a pastry in her mouth. “How could Mr. Bennet allow such foolishness? Mary must not break her engagement to Mr. Randall! And yet Mr. Bennet approves the decision and even facilitates it? How could he allow it?”

Having served in the Bennet household for many years, Hill knew better than to offer much by way of response.

After a few blissful moments of quiet, Mrs. Bennet perceived that Hill would not commiserate with her and, thus, continued her tirade.

“Whatever shall we do with Mary now? No gentleman wanted her before the dowry, and none will have her after this business with the Randalls! What will become of her after Mr. Bennet is gone, and the house has passed on to Mr. Collins? I shall, of course, go to Pemberley, but I do not believe Mr. Darcy will have Mary after her careless treatment of his gift. Besides, Kitty is already in their care.”

Again, Hill wisely remained silent, but she offered Mary a smile.

“She may be welcome with Jane, but Mr. Bingley is not half so rich as Mr. Darcy. And Lydia and Mr. Wickham travel far too often to take her.”

Mary fidgeted in her chair. Mrs. Bennet may not always choose her words kindly, but she certainly managed to express the truth. In this instance, her mother happened to be alarmingly accurate in her assessment of Mary’s situation.

Her stomach churned as she pictured the life that lay before her. She would live with her parents until her father expired. Then, Mary would not truly be welcome anywhere. She would forever be a burden upon one of her sisters.

A tear slid down her cheek, but she brushed it away before her mother marked it. She could not allow her mother to believe she regretted her decision, for she did not.

But she also did not relish the future she had created for herself.

The loss of Mr. Darcy’s money ensured that she would not be invited to Pemberley to enjoy the comforts of its library. Living with Lydia was out of the question, and Jane’s house, though comfortable, would hold little to amuse her. Mr. Bingley was a kind gentleman, but he was not a great reader and had no library.

Mary dropped her head into her hands. She would never have the chance of happiness.

In the background, her mother shrieked, “But the money, Hill! It would all be bearable if she had not lost it to those dreadful Randalls.”

Again, Mrs. Bennet’s thoughtless words tore at Mary’s heart. Her mother was right. The burden of a broken engagement was far easier when it was not yoked to the loss of ten thousand pounds.

As her father had said, “For good or ill, money buys marriage, which brings security.”

It was ever about the money. Everything started and ended with it.

Gaining the money had sent Mary’s life into chaos, but she always believed she would emerge from the chaos a happier woman. But losing the money? Losing it meant far worse. She could never emerge from the chaos, and she would be neither happy nor secure.

Money was both the problem and the solution to her problem.

In that moment, with echoes of her mother’s voice tearing through her very being, Mary realized what she must do.

Twenty

Leaping from her seat, Mary tore down the stairs and to the door, barely pausing to gather her pelisse and bonnet. In her dash from the house, she never considered calling for the carriage. Though she despised walking, she hurried on foot all the way to Meryton and her uncle’s law firm.

Upon entering the office, she discovered Mr. Hardcastle alone. Abruptly, he unfolded himself from behind a cluttered worktable and studied her with wide eyes. He had shed himself of his coat, which was most inappropriate when receiving a female caller, but Mary could not muster any sentiment on the matter. Not one quote on proper decorum came to her mind.

She was already labeled a jilt; she might as well also be seen with a man
en dishabille
.

“Miss Bennet!” he exclaimed.

“Mr. Hardcastle,” Mary said, hiding her inexplicable pleasure at having found him in this state.

“You have come.” His words sounded almost as if he were stating a fact aloud so that he himself might better comprehend it. Quickly, he added, “To see your uncle, of course. But he is not here.”

“Yes. No,” Mary said, clutching the fabric of her pelisse. “I am here to see you.”

She had hoped to find him alone, for she had no wish to wound her uncle by openly doubting his legal prowess.

Mr. Hardcastle waited.

“I have come to take you up on your offer of aid.”

“I see,” he said, jostling a precarious stack of papers as he rounded the table and drew nearer.

“I am certain that you are aware of my situation.”

He nodded, his face carefully blank. “I am sorry to say that the news of what has transpired between your family and the Randalls of Ashworth is rather well known. My sister and your uncle have talked of nothing else for days.”

Mary’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Although I am not surprised, I am very sorry to hear that. You must be rather tired of hearing my troubles, and yet I bring them to your door.”

They said nothing for long moments, and Mary contemplated the wisdom of what she was preparing to do.

“Shall we sit?” Mr. Hardcastle asked, interrupting her silent deliberation.

“No, no,” Mary said, looking at him again. “I have come for a purpose.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” he said, standing idly before her. “What may I do to help you?”

“I am given to understand that there can be legitimate reasons a contract might be voided. Perhaps Mr. Randall’s lawyer committed some error in the marriage settlement.”

Mr. Hardcastle raised an eyebrow and gave her a guilty grin.

“Do not ask me why,” he said carefully, extending his arm to her, “but I happen to have acquired a copy of the contract from your uncle’s desk. I have spent the balance of the day searching it for just such a flaw.”

Mary’s hand rose to her heart, and she made no move to take his arm. He had procured the contract and was already in the process of rendering aid. That could mean only that Mr. Hardcastle had thought of her, not as gossip fodder, but as a young lady worthy of gentlemanly assistance.

Not only had Mr. Hardcastle seen her, but he also had deemed her worthy, despite her mistakes.

The same odd sensation fluttered through her, but thanks to her conversation with Mr. Randall, she surmised its origin.

Mary Bennet loved Mr. Hardcastle.

But her realization had come far too late.

Still, she could not prevent herself the pleasure of raising her hand to his arm, allowing her fingertips to brush over the fabric of his shirt. His opposite hand covered hers, and her breath caught in her throat at the naked caress. His fingers were stained with ink, but they were warm and comforting.

She dared to look at his eyes and found them steadily regarding her.

“Come,” he said softly. “Let us see if we might rectify this.”

Mr. Hardcastle settled Mary in a hard wooden chair at his worktable and procured another for himself.

Spreading the papers before her, he said, “I have searched for all the usual errors, but I could spot nothing. Perhaps you will be able to see some aspect I overlooked.”

The ink blurred before her eyes. Mr. Hardcastle did her the honor of honesty in telling her that she had only a small chance for success. She knew little about the legal profession and even less about marriage contracts, but still, she must try. Her hand trembled as she adjusted the papers.

She read the contract once.

As he had predicted, Mary could see nothing in the verbiage that might extricate her family from the loss of Mr. Darcy’s generous bestowal.

As if reading her thoughts, Mr. Hardcastle said, “My sister explained the origins of your dowry.”

Mary turned emotional eyes upon him and hoped desperately not to find pity in his expression.

“Do not be angry with Penelope,” he implored. “It was her worry for your future that motivated her, and nothing else. She knows what it is to be without means.”

Mary felt a strange bolt of jealous anger surge in her.

“Miss Hardcastle is a beauty,” she said, “and a beauty is loved wherever she goes. A rich gentleman will one day see her and desire her. The same cannot be said of me.”

Then, she stood and began to pace behind the desk. “I must apologize,” she added. “My emotions are far too close to the surface, I fear.”

Mr. Hardcastle did not turn from the papers. “It is nothing, Miss Bennet,” he murmured.

“I do not wish you to believe me a slave to mammon,” Mary said, faltering slightly. She gestured at the paper. “It is not money that compels me to seek faults in that contract. I have never hoped for riches.”

Mr. Hardcastle adjusted so that he now faced Mary as she continued on her path back and forth across the room.

“Why then?” he asked. “To please your family?”

“I am not convinced that my mother can be truly pleased by any eventuality,” Mary muttered.

She stopped pacing, but did not turn toward him. She could not quite bring herself to speak the truth yet. She had only just become acquainted with her heart. She could not divulge its contents so soon.

“I must study this document,” she whispered instead as she returned to the table and focused on the papers.

Mr. Hardcastle remained silent beside her.

An hour passed.

Then another.

Mr. Hardcastle came and went, and still, Mary read.

At some point, a teacup appeared beside her, and she drank without realizing she had done so.

Mary’s head ached, and her heart had plummeted to the depths of despair. Why had she ever believed that she might find some hidden flaw in the marriage settlement? Mr. Randall’s attorney was thorough in his work. Otherwise, her uncle would never have advised her father to sign. Mr. Hardcastle had also searched the words and found nothing.

There was no hope to be had for Mary.

She plunked her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands. Without a thought to the propriety of her deportment, she moaned, “Why, oh, why did I ever accept him?”

“Yes, why did you?” Mr. Hardcastle asked, his voice bland as he appeared in the chair beside her.

“Oh! I do not know,” Mary wailed, sounding frighteningly like her mother. Upon that unpleasant realization, she paused to compose herself. After a moment’s thought, she found she had reconsidered. “That is a falsehood. I do know.”

She looked at Mr. Hardcastle’s curious expression and decided that no matter what she confessed, no further damage could be done.

“Since my sisters all left home, I have come to realize that I have wasted my life striving for accomplishments that no one truly appreciates. I have spent hours at the pianoforte, only to discover that my voice can never accompany me. I have read, only to find that people believe I moralize when I discuss the books I love. For once, I wanted to do something that would create pride in the gazes of my mother and father.”

“And that is all?” he asked.

Mary regarded him more closely. It appeared that her response was of utmost importance to him. She remained silent. Was he asking if she had loved Mr. Randall?

Surely, he must know that her acceptance of Mr. George Randall had nothing to do with sentiment. Mary Bennet had never been in love.