Mary Bennet: A Novella in the Personages of Pride & Prejudice Collection (15 page)

Until now.

Until she had met Mr. Hardcastle.

But it was too late. She could not expect him to take her now that she was thus soiled.

“Also, because,” Mary added lamely, “the library at Ashford is said to be well stocked.”

Her whisper died away into silence, and the warmth of the room seemed to tuck itself around them. Mary’s heart thumped wildly in her chest at the tender expression on Mr. Hardcastle’s face.

But he did not reach for her.

How could he? She had ruined herself. No honorable gentleman would deign to romance a penniless jilt.

She stood again, her legs protesting after having remained so long in one attitude.

“I have been moral and good, and now I am poor and a jilt. Perhaps I should have listened to my uncle and avoided aligning myself with a gentleman of Gallic descent.”

Her head snapped up.

“Gallic descent,” she repeated.

“I did not know Randall was a French name,” Mr. Hardcastle said, confused.

“No, it is not. But his Christian name…Mr. Hardcastle, that is it! His name!”

“What? You are speaking in riddles.”

Mary took a steadying breath.

“Gossips in town often recount a tale about the late Mrs. Randall. She insisted her firstborn be given her family name. A name she shared with Napoleon Bonaparte’s mistress, who later became his wife.” She frowned in thought, but the name refused to make itself known. “I cannot recall the name she gave him, but Mr. Randall despised it and began calling him George after his wife’s death.”

“George is not his given name?” Mr. Hardcastle asked, scrabbling for the papers.

“No,” Mary said, wracking her brain. “It is…it is…Beauharnais.”

She threw herself toward the table, hunching over as they both scoured the documents.

“Here it is!” he cried, turning his head so that he faced Mary. “George Randall to marry Mary Bennet, etcetera. They have not used his proper given name.”

Their faces were close as she beamed at him.

Mr. Hardcastle’s eyes searched hers, and the room suddenly felt too small and far too intimate.

Mary licked her lips, and his gaze dropped to her mouth.

She straightened and cleared her throat. “Is that sufficient grounds for nullifying the document?”

Mr. Hardcastle also cleared his throat and stood. “First, we must verify his true given name. The parish church ought to have a record of his baptism.”

“Yes!” Mary said. “I am certain his mother remained alive long enough to insist upon its use when he was christened.”

Mr. Hardcastle gave a sharp nod of confirmation. “Then, once we have the proof, Mr. Philips will be able to argue for the voiding of the contract.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” Mary breathed.

Suddenly, her heart felt both lighter and heavier. She and Mr. Hardcastle may have managed to salvage Mr. Darcy’s gift, but all the money in England would do her little good in securing a husband now that she was deemed a jilt. However, its return may allow her one day to make Pemberley her home. There, she would be forgotten just as much as she would at any other place, but at least she would have the comfort of books.

Mary turned to Mr. Hardcastle and gave him a watery smile. “I must offer you my deepest gratitude for your help, sir.”

He stood, briefly met her eyes, and then looked away almost bashfully. “You owe me no thanks, Miss Bennet. I desired to aid you, and I shall continue to do so by applying to the rector.”

The air in the room thickened, and Mary felt as if breathing had suddenly become an unfamiliar act. Mr. Hardcastle stepped closer.

“Miss Bennet,” he whispered. “I—”

“I must go,” she said quickly, unable to bear what he might say. “I must tell my parents the happy news.”

She pivoted on her heel, nearly knocking over Mr. Hardcastle’s vacated chair in the process, and stumbled out of her uncle’s law office.

Behind her, she heard a rough whisper.

“Mary….”

Not ready to face her own heart, Mary fled.

Twenty-one

Upon the dissolution of the marriage settlement, Mr. John Randall arrived promptly at Longbourn to pay a pleasant call upon Mr. Bennet.

Having expected his arrival, Mary greeted him at the door with an innocent grin.

“Do come in, Mr. Randall,” she said, her voice laced with graciousness. “I see that you have come for a morning call. Shall I request tea?”

Mr. Randall’s face purpled, and he sputtered wordlessly at her.

Mary wondered when she had become so brazen. For years, she had managed no thoughts that had not first been recorded in books, but now, she spoke her own mind. Perhaps the characteristic had not been as absent from her as she had believed, but dormant, awaiting its moment to awaken.

“Where is your father?” he demanded, pushing past her and stomping down the hall. “I will speak with him.”

She followed, calling after him, “If you will wait here, I shall summon him.”

Mr. Randall pounded at her father’s door and then opened it himself.

Mr. Bennet stood, but his face registered no surprise.

Mary stepped past the angry man. “Papa, Mr. Randall has come to see you, and he refuses to wait at the door.”

“Well,” Mr. Bennet said, his voice full of irony, “then he must come in.”

By this time, Mr. Randall’s knees already brushed against the front of Mr. Bennet’s desk.

“You are no kind of a gentleman!” he shouted.

Mr. Bennet returned to his seat and languidly regarded the intruder, who now glowered at him.

“And you are obviously unaware of the rules of propriety that discourage a guest from barging into a gentleman’s private chamber and interrupting his solitude.”

Mr. Randall clenched his fists and slammed them onto the desk.

“Besides which,” Mr. Bennet continued, “you have come to rail at me for discovering the flaw in the marriage contract—”

“It was no flaw! His name is George!”

“Not according to the law,” Mr. Bennet said gleefully. “Moreover, you have come to this door in error, sir. I did not discover the flaw. The credit goes to my daughter alone.”

Mr. Randall spun and glared at Mary.

Behind him, Mr. Bennet smiled at his daughter and said, “You have been out-maneuvered by a female.”

Mr. Bennet rose, turning his back on his guest and facing Mary instead.

“I wish I could say that I was unsurprised by her actions,” he said, still addressing his guest but looking only at Mary. “I believed her to be as foolish as a young girl could be, and her engagement to your son seemed to confirm that belief.”

Mr. Randall made a guttural sound in his throat as Mr. Bennet continued.

“But her methods of extricating herself from what was so clearly an endeavor to gain her money were far beyond what I expected.”

Awestruck, Mary stared at her father as tears filled her eyes. Mr. Bennet had always preferred Lizzie and had reserved such compliments for her alone. He had never spoken to Mary with such candor and respect.

A tear slid down her cheek, and her regret slid away with it. She would engage herself to Mr. Randall a thousand times over if it meant this one moment with her father.

“Very fine words, Mr. Bennet,” Mr. Randall managed to say. “But her cleverness will be to her detriment.”

“Oh?” her father asked. “How so?”

“Polite society will never receive her, and no gentleman of means—or lack thereof—will have her now.”

“That may indeed be true,” Mr. Bennet agreed in an affable tone, “but I no longer doubt that Mary shall be able to endure whatever her future holds.”

Twenty-two

“Why does this dress refuse to button?” Mrs. Bennet demanded of Hill, who stood behind her mistress and attempted to stuff her completely inside the garment.

Under her breath, Hill muttered something about “dozens of pastries,” and Mary smiled at her.

Life at Longbourn had returned to normal; however, Meryton society had not yet welcomed the Bennets back into the fold.

Mr. Bennet assured Mary that it was only a matter of time. They had suffered little after Lydia’s scandal with Mr. Wickham. Soon, Meryton would forget about Mary and Mr. Randall as well.

In the meantime, Mrs. Philips called upon them, often bringing with her Miss Hardcastle and news from Meryton.

On one such call, the two ladies were accompanied by a single gentleman: Mr. Hardcastle.

Mary managed a polite curtsy to him, but her heart leapt within her chest at the sight of him.

“Oh, Mr. Hardcastle,” Mrs. Bennet said, waving him toward the tall-backed chair beside the window. “Do sit down. You honor us with your presence. You are the first gentleman to darken this door since…well…since—”

“It was good of you to come,” Mary supplied when her mother could not find a way out of her oratorical dilemma. “Would you care to sit?”

“No, I have no wish to sit,” he said bluntly. “I hoped you might take a turn in the garden with me, Miss Bennet.”

Mary’s face flushed, and she appealed to her mother for permission.

Mrs. Bennet’s eyebrows met her hairline. “Oh yes! Do take our Mary wherever you wish, Mr. Hardcastle. Oh! Oh!” She turned to Mrs. Philips. “He wants to take a turn with her…
in the garden
. All hope is not lost!”

Mr. Hardcastle smiled at her mother’s obvious display and offered his arm. Mary took it, grateful to be free of the room.

“I must apologize for my mother,” Mary said when she and Mr. Hardcastle were safely out of doors. “My family, it seems, often struggles to make appropriate conversation. Unfortunately, I seem to have inherited the trait.”

“I have always understood you, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Hardcastle said. His boots crunched softly on the garden path as they walked. “And I have always fancied that you understood me as well. Even when we spoke mostly in quotations.”

Mary lowered her eyes, watching her own steps slow, and shook her head.

“I have hardly understood myself until recently,” she admitted. “I have made so many mistakes that I do not wish to make another by assuming anything about you.”

Mr. Hardcastle halted, causing Mary to stop abruptly a step later. She turned to face him but could not manage to meet his eyes.

“Then, let me tell you bluntly,” he said, using his index finger to tip her chin up and then lingering at her jawline. “I am in love with you and wish to marry you.”

His declaration held no poetry at all, and Mary could not but approve of his forthright honesty, for now she knew without a doubt that Mr. Hardcastle loved her. Her face lit with joy, and happiness robbed her of words. In lieu of speech, she pressed her palm to his cheek. Her eyes slid shut as she savored her moment of pure feeling.

“Say something, Mary,” Mr. Hardcastle said, his voice hoarse.

Mary opened her eyes and saw that Mr. Hardcastle, whose bearing was usually so confident and certain, appeared utterly unsure.

“My heart,” she finally managed to whisper, “is too full of feeling to allow my mind to compose words.”

“Is it?” Mr. Hardcastle asked in a gentle tone. “What feelings?”

“Gratitude,” Mary replied.

“Gratitude?” His face fell. “I am glad for it, but is that all? Is that the balance of your feelings toward me?”

“No,” she whispered but could admit no more.

“Shall I tell you what
I
feel, Mary?”

Mary could only nod in response.

“I wish that I might seek your hand in marriage. I am painfully aware that I have nothing to offer a wife, especially one who brings with her a dowry. I thought I had no right to speak to you, but my sister encouraged me to give voice to my heart…even before your engagement.”

“I am not engaged any longer,” Mary reminded him.

“Still, I do not see why you would consent to marry a penniless clerk from your uncle’s law office. Your dowry means you might outrun the gossip in Hertfordshire and ensnare a landed gentleman with a name, a house, a library—”

“Stop,” Mary whispered, blinking back tears. “I have no wish to leave Hertfordshire, for it is my home. Moreover, I have no desire to marry any gentleman whose only inducement to matrimony is a house or the grandest library I can imagine.”

“No?” he asked softly.

“Perhaps all of Hertfordshire—nay, all of history—may believe that Mary Bennet obtained nothing higher than one of her uncle’s clerks, but we shall know the truth.”

“What truth is that?” Mr. Hardcastle asked, stepping closer and taking her hand in his.

“That though a union between us might not merit whispers of our exchange of pounds and land, we shall have something more valuable. We shall have the comfort of like minds. We comprehend each other, and we love each other, despite the faults that others may observe in us.”