The Pursuit of Mary Bennet: A Pride and Prejudice Novel Read online

  Dedication

  For Katie, with all my love

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  P.S.: Insights, Interviews & More . . .

  About the author

  About the book

  Read on

  Also by Pamela Mingle

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Sometimes anger is a living thing. It rose up in my chest and made me want to chew thorns. They would tear at the tender flesh on the roof of my mouth, at my cheeks and tongue. When I swallowed, the sweet, salty taste of blood would linger on my palate, along with pointy bits of thorn. I squeezed my eyes shut, contemplating the pain.

  Why was I loitering outside the upstairs sitting room, eavesdropping on a conversation between my parents? Especially since it aroused such ire in me. That couldn’t be healthy. I leaned closer.

  “To see all my girls but one settled. Such joy!” Mama said.

  “Is Kitty engaged, then?” my father asked.

  “She soon will be, mark my words. We will have another wedding by Michaelmas.”

  We had already celebrated three weddings in the family. My two elder sisters, Jane and Elizabeth, had wed wealthy and propertied gentlemen three years ago, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy. Lydia, my youngest sister, formed a rather disastrous union with one Mr. Wickham, formerly of the militia, and went off to live in Newcastle, as he was currently attached to a regiment quartered there. Only Kitty and I remained at home.

  “Ah, you refer to Mr. Walsh, I presume,” Papa said. “Jane describes him as a reserved sort of fellow. Not at all the kind I thought Kitty would have chosen. Perhaps she is too eager to be wed.”

  I nearly choked on the irony. Kitty’s foremost preoccupation was with finding a husband. And success at last! She had lately acquired a beau, a friend of Mr. Bingley’s, whom she met during a lengthy stay with Jane and my brother-in-law. The very man my parents were now discussing.

  “What do you mean? He’s a handsome man, and has six thousand pounds a year! You only met him the once, Mr. Bennet, and cannot have formed a correct impression. And anyway, who cares if he is reserved?”

  “Kitty, perhaps?”

  I pressed my lips together to quell a laugh. I pictured Mama casting my father a severe look and knew his gaze in return would not waver. “Walsh has made his intentions clear, then. Shall I expect a visit from him soon?”

  “Not yet, but it won’t be long.” Assured for some time of the matrimonial nature of the relationship, she had, I was quite certain, already spread the idea around the neighborhood.

  “What of Mary? Does she wish to wed?” Why was he inquiring about me? No one ever thought of me when marriage was discussed. I was a person of no consequence. I’d never had suitors, nor did I desire any.

  “Mary will make an excellent governess for Jane’s or Lizzy’s children someday,” Mama said. “Marriage is not for her. I cannot think of any man who would have her.”

  I imagined dashing into the room and pouring the contents of the teapot over her head. She was wrong, in any case, about one thing. Neither Jane nor Lizzy would want me as a governess for her children. They didn’t think well enough of me.

  “Perhaps Mary should have some say in the matter,” said my father.

  “Bah!” she said dismissively. “When you are dead and Mr. Collins takes possession of our home, dear Jane or Lizzy will take us in, depend upon it. And her sisters will welcome Mary’s help.” Mr. Collins was our unctuous cousin, upon whom my father’s property was entailed. My mother believed his intention was to swoop down upon us grieving females to claim his inheritance before Papa was lowered into his grave. I cringed every time she mentioned Papa’s death, seemingly unconcerned about his feelings on the matter.

  She continued. “Of course, she may be called upon soon enough to Newcastle to help Lydia and Wickham when their child is born.”

  And that was what infuriated me and made me wish to chew thorns. Sharp, spiky thorns. It was time to make my presence known. I knocked.

  “Mary,” my father said. “Sit down and have your tea. Tell us your opinion of Kitty’s lover.”

  He has two heads and is only three feet tall. I grant you, both countenances are fine looking. And Mama is correct; he does have six thousand pounds a year, from his appearances at country fairs and exhibitions.

  “I hardly know him, sir.”

  “Of course you do. You’ve met him at High Tor, have you not?”

  “On a few occasions. But I’ve never had a conversation with him.” In my mind’s eye, Henry Walsh stood in the doorway of the salon at High Tor, Jane and Mr. Bingley’s home, while I played the pianoforte. A few years ago during a visit to Elizabeth at Pemberley, my sister had persuaded Mr. Darcy that I would benefit from instruction on that instrument. To my surprise, he arranged it and bore the expense, and my playing had improved dramatically. Since then, I’d had to amend my opinion of the man. He was not the insufferable snob I once thought him to be. Unfortunately, no one suggested voice lessons, and so my singing continued to make people squirm. I refrained from forcing anybody, family or friends, to listen to my off-pitch performances.

  On the evening in question, Mr. Walsh, who was far too handsome and fine figured to entertain locals at a country fair, leaned into the door frame watching me and presumably listening. Perhaps he was carried away by the music. I felt all the self-consciousness—and irritation—one would expect from such attention but managed to maintain my composure. After a few moments, the rest of the party arrived, and I rose, surrendering the instrument to Georgiana Darcy. Mr. Walsh had seated himself next to Kitty. A few furtive glances in his direction assured me of his indifference to me. Excellent, since I did not desire his attention.

  “But you’ve observed him and Kitty together. What do you think of the match?”

  My father’s insistent questions caught me off guard. Was he teasing? My opinion usually counted for nothing. “I-I confess, I have never noticed them speaking much to each other, aside from the usual courtesies.”

  “Oh, what nonsense!” Mama said. “What good is talking, anyway? It only leads to quarrels and misunderstandings. I wouldn’t place too much importance on it. I am certain they have a great regard for each other.”

  “You’re right, my dear. Why should any lady desire to converse with the person she may be spending the rest of her life
with?” His gaze shifted to me, and I noticed the thinly concealed mockery it held. “And what about you, Mary?”

  Settled on one end of the sofa, I’d been pouring my tea and pondering what to say to Mama regarding Lydia’s lying-in. I had not expected all these questions. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “A man, of course. Any prospective suitors at Pemberley or High Tor who have captured your interest?”

  My mother snorted. “Men don’t notice Mary.”

  Her words burned, as though she’d slapped me. I wished I were bold enough to invent a suitor, a handsome, elegantly dressed gentleman with £15,000 a year, who had declared his undying love and devotion to me. But I’d have been found out soon enough.

  “Of course not, sir.” Resentment, so entrenched, rose in my chest against them both.

  But when I raised my eyes and peered at him over my teacup, my father’s look held no hint of disdain. Since my elder sisters had married, Papa paid me more attention than he used to do. I believed he missed Lizzy’s sharp wit and intelligence, and I hoped I might someday take her place, if not in his heart, at least intellectually. Though I was foolish in so many ways, I harbored no improbable dreams of replacing Elizabeth in his affections.

  I added milk to my tea and thought back to the morning Papa had first summoned me to his library and suggested a volume for me to read. “Mary,” he said, “I set out some books for you. If you would be so good as to read them, perhaps we may, from time to time, discuss them. You might begin with Marcus Aurelius.”

  I recalled how reverently I’d run my fingers over the books before picking up The Meditations and, after a quick curtsy and murmured thank-you, scurrying from the room, fearing my father would change his mind. Thus, over the course of the last few years, I had studied the Romans and Greeks, English history and literature, and whatever of Shakespeare I hadn’t already read. John Donne, John Milton, Samuel Pepys, Dr. Johnson, and James Boswell. A whole new world had opened up to me, a world far beyond Fordyce’s Sermons and Chapone’s Letters on the Improvement of the Mind.

  Papa left me to my own reflections, for the most part, although on a few occasions he asked my opinion of one of the works. Once we had a lively discussion of Pepys’s diary entries about the Great Fire. For the briefest moment, his eyes danced with excitement, just as they used to do with Lizzy, right before he returned to the volume in his lap. He reminded me to shut the door on my way out, which I often forgot to do.

  I smiled at the memory and sipped at my lukewarm tea, reflecting on my current situation. With Lydia gone, Kitty was kinder to me, inviting me to sit with her and Mama while they sewed, netted reticules, and shared whatever gossip was currently circulating around the neighborhood. Mama pestered me to take up my own work, but I preferred reading. The best days were those on which my mother and sister visited Lady Lucas or my aunt Philips. I welcomed the quiet while they were from home. As did my father, I was quite certain.

  Even better, Mama and Kitty often spent a fortnight or more with Jane or Lizzy. I also made brief visits to my elder sisters when invited. Although they and their husbands extended every courtesy to me while I stayed with them, I was painfully conscious of their invitations to me bearing the weight of obligation.

  If I were to raise an objection to a sojourn in Newcastle, now was the time. I bit into a scone to fortify myself. “Mama, I believe I heard you mention my attending Lydia when her child is born.”

  “You were listening at the door. Wicked girl! How many times have I admonished you not to do so?” Mama herself was an inveterate eavesdropper, but I was to be labeled wicked on account of it. I ignored her remark, and at last she said, “Yes, and so what of it?”

  “I think it would be far better if you or Jane or Lizzy were to go. I know nothing of births or taking care of babies.”

  She gave me her most formidable glare. “Such cheek! Look at you, Mary, you have crumbs on your bosom.”

  I brushed at the crumbs, my face flushing with embarrassment. “I don’t believe I would be very helpful in the circumstances.” That was not the chief of it. The thought of passing any time with Lydia and the husband who’d been forced to marry her turned my stomach. Mama couldn’t make me go.

  She continued her rant. “I could not withstand the rigors of the trip. My nerves would never allow it. And your elder sisters are busy with their own families. It is your duty to go, Mary, as the only unmarried sister.”

  “But, Mama, I am not the only unmarried sister!”

  “Before long, you will be!”

  “Kitty should go. You know how close she and Lydia are.”

  “We dare not remove Kitty from High Tor at this time. No, that wouldn’t do at all. It must be you. You’ve nothing to do besides embroider seat cushions and trim bonnets.”

  Two of the most odious tasks I was sometimes forced to undertake. My mother made it sound as though these were activities I chose to do. The truth was, she herself insisted these were skills all young ladies must possess. Quite satisfied with last season’s bonnets given to me by Jane and Lizzy, I desired no others. Why should I? And in my view, none of the seat cushions appeared worn. Mrs. Hill had taken the utmost care of them over the years.

  Just then, that lady appeared in the doorway with a stunned look upon her face. “What is it, Hill?” Mama asked, a sharp edge to her voice.

  “Miss Lydia—I mean Mrs. Wickham—is here, ma’am.”

  None of us made a response. We were too stunned.

  With her usual shrill laughter, Lydia flounced her way into the parlor. She was great with child, her time fast approaching. “You needn’t look so shocked!” she said, untying her bonnet strings and dropping her reticule on the nearest table.

  My mother hastened to the side of her youngest and favorite daughter. Clapping her hands in unrestrained delight, she said, “Lydia, dear, what a joy to see you. But you should not be traveling so close to your confinement.”

  I stared at my sister, who seemed grotesquely large. A cow about to calf.

  Papa caught my eye, his brows quizzical. “What is the reason for your visit, Lydia?”

  “I’ve left Wickham,” she announced as she pulled off her gloves. “I am moving back to Longbourn.”

  Chapter 2

  Something akin to laughter gurgled up from my diaphragm and burst out as a mixture of snort and giggle. I clapped my hand over my mouth to prevent it from happening again.

  “Oh!” Mama said, collapsing upon the chaise.

  “Lydia, what is the meaning of this?” My father’s stern look revealed exactly how he felt about Lydia’s unexpected arrival. Ever since she’d disgraced the family by running off with Mr. Wickham, while Papa and my uncle Gardiner searched the whole of London trying to find them, he had not been kindly disposed toward my sister or her husband.

  “The drinking and gambling I can tolerate, although I don’t like him squandering our money. But I do not think I can bear to live with a man who prefers the company of other women!” She began to cry, her carefree guise crumbling along with her countenance.

  I softened. “Do sit down, sister,” I said, leading Lydia to the nearest chair. “This turmoil cannot be good for you or your child.”

  Papa asked Mrs. Hill to bring refreshments for Lydia, and when her crying let up, she explained the details of her situation. “There is a certain lady who, in recent months, began to appear at assemblies, and at private balls and parties as well. A Miss Susan Bradford. She is a particular friend of the general’s wife, and indeed, since I’ve been in this condition”—at this she gave a smart slap to her bulging belly—“she has replaced me in that lady’s affections. In Wickham’s affections, too, I fear. He spends all his time by her side at any party or dinner and dances with her at the balls. When I called his attention to it, he made a show of waiting only on me the next time we were in company. But he soon returned to his old ways. He said I shou
ldn’t begrudge him a little fun when I’m with child and cannot dance.”

  “This is scandalous, Lydia!” Mama said. “Mr. Bennet, you must speak to Wickham immediately!”

  “Does your husband know you are here?” Papa asked.

  “I left him a note.”

  “Shouldn’t you have spoken to him before rushing off?” I inquired. When Lydia eloped with Wickham, she had informed her chaperones by means of a note, and now, in leaving him, she had done the same. Rash decisions followed by hastily penned notes seemed to be her preferred way of managing difficult situations.

  “Oh, hush, Mary. You’re only a spinster. What do you know of dealings between men and women? I am sure it will be a great relief to him to have me gone.”

  Indeed, and who would fault him for that?

  “Dear Wickham loves you, Lydia! I am sure you are wrong to have done this. Oh, what shall I do when news of this gets out? Mr. Bennet, you must leave for Newcastle immediately.”

  “I shall do no such thing.” He strode out of the room, shaking his head and muttering to himself. I fully expected him to remain sequestered in his library for the rest of the day, and he did not disappoint.

  My mother put it about to friends and neighbors that Lydia had come to Longbourn to await the birth of her child. Since Mr. Wickham was busy with military duties and didn’t know when he might be called away to defend the English coast against a French attack, this seemed a reasonable way to explain her presence. After all, there was a war with France going on. With a good deal of cajoling from both Mama and myself, Papa agreed to write to Wickham and demand an explanation. I, because my mother’s nerves caused her to take to her bed, wrote to both Jane and Elizabeth.