Page 13 of It Taught Me to Hope

M ary Hardwick was not an unobservant woman. Her upbringing as the sole sister of five who was not close to any of her sisters had left her with her own company as often as not, and her disinclination for dancing and lack of attention from the gentlemen of the neighborhood had given her ample opportunity to observe the foibles of her fellow man. What Mary saw of the world disappointed her, though she had always understood her eldest sisters were excellent women, treasures that deserved affection and respect.

If Mary considered the matter in any detail—she had several times over the years—she could only acknowledge that she had misspent much of her years as a girl and then a young woman. Mary was not unaware of how her father had referred to his youngest daughters as the silliest girls in England, and she knew he had sometimes included her in this assessment. Mary had ignored it, for she had been accustomed to being beneath her parents’ notice. As an adult who looked back on those times, she could not argue that his point did not have merit.

While Mary had pursued various studies, she now recognized that she had not done so for the right reasons. The pianoforte was an example of this, for while she enjoyed it and now appreciated the work she had done to learn to play, her goal of gaining acceptance or recognition was not at all praiseworthy. The mere notion of her former devotion to Fordyce was enough to cause a shudder, for she could only suppose that she had been judgmental and ridiculous.

After Kitty and Jane married and their father passed on, Mary had spent a few months living alone with Elizabeth at Longbourn, and in that time she had learned much of her sister and much of herself. Mr. Hardwick’s entrance into her life proved the final boon, the event that had allowed Mary to leave behind the concerns of youth, learn what it was to be an adult and turn her attention to living in that world. Mary would always be a pious woman, but she thought she had learned to turn that virtuous life into one more tolerant and dutiful, helping the parish’s families, living with and loving her husband, raising her children, and loving her sister, who had become the dearest person in the family to her. That last was not difficult to attain, for she had not counted most of those she had lived with all her life as dear.

“Was I insufferable, Lizzy?” asked Mary one morning during a visit to Longbourn.

As they had been silent for several moments and Lizzy was engaged in holding a sleeping James, Mary caught her off guard with her question.

“Do you refer to anything particular?”

Mary fixed her sister in her sights, not willing to allow Elizabeth to obfuscate. “Pardon me if I state the obvious, Lizzy, but I know you are far more perceptive than that. You well know I refer to my youth, when I spoke only to offer homilies and rendered judgment more often than not.”

“I am curious, Mary. What brought such subjects as this to mind? As I recall, we spoke of this before.”

“No reason, I suppose. It crossed my mind, and I suspect you were kinder to me than I deserve.”

“Who among us does not deserve kindness? In the Bible, it says that none of us can do anything without God’s help.”

It was a rhetorical observation, and it did not satisfy Mary at all. Eschewing further response, Mary chose the simple expedient of watching her sister, demanding an answer.

“No, Mary, you were not insufferable. I might more easily apply that adjective to Lydia.”

“Yes, well, I do not think I ever approached that girl’s ability to annoy and offend.”

Elizabeth offered a wry smile. “There are few, I think, who could. You had your foibles, Mary, and I will own that I found them tiresome. We all have them—even Jane, of whom we all like to think in the most angelic terms. Consider Mama’s continual predictions of dire consequences for my ‘unladylike insistence on traipsing all over the country.’”

“Mama was not bereft of foibles herself,” muttered Mary.

Though a dutiful daughter, Mary had often despaired over her mother and father’s shortcomings, many of which affected their children in profound ways. Mary did not like to judge those who had passed on, but it was no less than the truth that her feelings for her departed mother were complex, and she knew Elizabeth harbored the same sentiments. Mrs. Bennet had been an exasperating woman, and regardless of Mary’s intention to think of her in only positive terms, she had not been an easy woman to esteem.

“Nor was Papa,” replied Elizabeth. “If you consider Lydia’s disappearance, that was as much Papa’s fault as it was Mama’s. Mama encouraged Lydia in her wild behavior, but Papa had authority over her and could have curbed her whenever he chose. That he did not do so and allowed her to go to Brighton when the dangers were so obvious was nothing less than a dereliction of his duty to us as a father.”

Mary regarded Elizabeth with interest. “That is curious, Lizzy, for I do not recall you ever speaking of Papa in such a way.”

“There was little point in it,” said Elizabeth with a shrug. “Papa was what he was, and I did not wish to forever complain or make myself unhappy. I was close to Papa, as you recall, and I tried to draw strength from our relationship rather than dwelling on his faults.”

A moment later, after a period of introspection, Elizabeth added: “You would not know this, but I attempted to persuade Papa against allowing Lydia to go to Brighton.”

“I did not know that,” replied Mary. “Then again, I recall Papa saying something of it after the event, something about your perception.”

“Aye, that he did. By then it was too late, of course, and the acknowledgment that I had seen more clearly than he was cold comfort.”

“Yes, I suppose it was,” agreed Mary.

For several long moments they fell silent, Elizabeth concentrating on the sleeping child in her arms while Mary watched her sister. Only a few short weeks ago, it had seemed unlikely that Elizabeth would marry, unfathomable to Mary’s thinking as it had been her firm opinion that Elizabeth was the most likely of them all to marry, notwithstanding Jane’s beauty and sweetness of temper. When a man entered the room Jane might draw his eyes to her, and he might remain enthralled for a time, but Elizabeth was a woman to pull attention to herself by virtue of her lively nature. Jane awed men with her looks and angelic temper, but Elizabeth dazzled them with her wit and vivacity. As Elizabeth was pretty in her own right, Mary had not supposed that Elizabeth, of all of them, would reach six and twenty without being married.

Which was why Mr. Darcy’s sudden appearance was so curious. Mary, as an observant young woman, had not missed how often Mr. Darcy looked at Elizabeth, though she had not been certain what to make of his scrutiny. Elizabeth’s contention that Mr. Darcy looked on her to criticize did not seem likely, for Mary had never supposed a man would look on a woman to excess if he found her ill-favored. Yet Mr. Darcy had not shown excessive interest, for his scrutiny had appeared almost absent. The gentleman’s return to Meryton put the lie to that supposition, for Mary could think of only one reason for his return. That he was often in Elizabeth’s company further stoked Mary’s suspicions.

As Mary recalled, her sister had hinted at some events between herself and Mr. Darcy, but she had not explained them, promising to do so later. Now was as good a time as any, supposed Mary, and she determined at once to wheedle the story from her sister’s unwilling lips.

“You have become friendly with the Darcys of late.”

The observation provoked Elizabeth to close herself, her expression as she looked back at Mary guarded. The notion of such a subject being so unpalatable struck Mary as diverting, though Elizabeth did not appear to appreciate her mirth.

“It is a common problem with sisters and friends,” said Elizabeth, her voice more than a little prim, “that they all believe such close relationships entitle them to meddle, especially when they are already married.”

“Oh, Lizzy!” said Mary, putting her arm around her sister’s shoulders. “I know you do not believe that I mean to meddle in your friendship. However, I am curious, for I recall you suggesting that I did not know all that passed between you and Mr. Darcy—which I never thought I did—and promising to relate the details to me. I do not wish to pry, but I would like to understand if you are willing to share. Will you not explain it to me?”

A sigh was Elizabeth’s response, followed by a wry smile. “I suppose you will not allow me to rest if I do not tell you all.”

“If you do not wish it, I will promise to be content. But I should hope you are willing to say more to me than to Charlotte, for example. Though she has been your friend for years, I am your sister.”

“That you are, Mary,” said Elizabeth, her voice brimming with affection. “A better sister with whom to live in harmony and mutual assistance I cannot imagine, for even Jane would not be so welcome to me. At least if I tell you, your response will not insist on misunderstanding as the culprit, and your advice will be sound.”

“Thank you for that, Lizzy,” said Mary, feeling flattered.

Elizabeth then revealed the details of her past with Mr. Darcy, a past that had ended six years before only to be rekindled at Mr. Darcy’s unexpected arrival in Hertfordshire. That she had not known all Mary understood, but the extent of it beggared the imagination. Mr. Darcy had proposed to Elizabeth? That she had rejected him out of hand was not a surprise in the slightest, not given Elizabeth’s refusal of Mr. Collins’s suit and her resistance to anything their mother said on the subject. Elizabeth’s account also strayed into some of their interactions in Kent, those at Netherfield when she had nursed Jane, and a few other observations, most notably about Mr. Bingley’s ball.

When Elizabeth explained what she knew of Mr. Wickham, Mary already knew much of the man’s worthlessness, though his specific offenses against Mr. Darcy were new. In Elizabeth’s explanation on that front Mary thought there were a few holes, but she suspected they were personal details Mr. Darcy related to her, which Elizabeth would not spread, and Mary knew it would be better not to ask. By the time Elizabeth finished her narrative, James was awake and demanding his mother’s attention, and Mary took her child from Elizabeth’s arms to nurse him.

“That is a fantastical tale, indeed,” said Mary when she held her child in her arms. “I am not surprised that you kept it to yourself, though I suspect you told at least some of it to Jane.”

“I did,” confirmed Elizabeth, “as I wished for her counsel. Even now I wonder if part of the blame for Lydia’s fall was because of my silence concerning Mr. Wickham’s character.”

Whatever Elizabeth expected in Mary’s reply, it was not Mary’s snort of disdain. “That girl was on a path leading straight to ruin, Lizzy. Regardless of what you or I thought on the matter, Mama could not see the danger and appreciated Lydia’s high spirits, and Papa could not bestir himself to check her. Do you suppose Papa would have forbidden her from going, even if you had spoken of it?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I do not suppose it. When I spoke to Papa, he decried any notion of Lydia being in danger from a fortune hunter, as she had nothing more than any of us.”

“In that, he did not consider the danger to a man intent upon base gratification. No one would look to make a purchase, but there must be men out there who have no qualms about trying the merchandise.”

“That is a blunt way of putting it, but I cannot disagree.”

“I make no apologies, for I am a blunt sort of person.”

The sisters shared a grin at this observation; Elizabeth could understand Mary’s character, for she was not bereft of a certain forthrightness herself.

“What strikes me most about this tale you related,” continued Mary, “was that Mr. Darcy, of all men, proposed to you.”

“It no less than astonished me, for I had not thought him anything other than the highborn gentleman espousing values common to his class.”

“He did not present himself to any advantage to be certain.” Mary offered Elizabeth a mischievous look. “It is well that you kept this matter from us, especially from Mama. Can you imagine her response if she became aware of your refusal of a second offer of marriage?”

“Longbourn might well have fallen about us!”

Again, the sisters convulsed in laughter, James protesting at his mother’s excessive movement. Mary settled herself and he returned to his feeding, allowing Mary to return her attention to Elizabeth.

“What do you think, Mary?” asked Elizabeth. “As I am still unmarried at six and twenty, would I have done better to accept Mr. Darcy?”

Mary shook her head. “I know your character, Lizzy. You would not have been happy with either Mr. Darcy or Mr. Collins. From a prudential point of view, many would say you were foolish, while many others would laud your courage. For my part, I suspect there was nothing else you could have done but to refuse them both.”

“That was what I thought.”

Elizabeth fixed a quizzical look on Mary. “Mr. Darcy was never an option for you, of course, but Mr. Collins might have turned his attention to you had Mama not directed him to me. If he had so precipitously proposed to you, would you have accepted him?”

It was an excellent question, and one Mary would not scruple to suggest she had not considered many times in the years since the event. As the matter was still a question in her mind, Mary reflected on the subject for some moments before she responded.

“In all honesty, I might have accepted Mr. Collins had he turned to me, though I cannot say with any certitude. I did not expect to marry, which may have provoked me to act against my inclination, yet I did not misunderstand his deficiencies and lack of appeal.”

“If you had, I would think you witless,” was Elizabeth’s wry reply.

“He made no attempt to hide them.”

“On the contrary, my dear Mary,” said Elizabeth, her tone brimming with laughter, “he wore them as a badge of honor!”

“Aye, that he did!

“Now, of course, I recognize what a poor specimen he was. If such a man presented himself to me after I learned what a marriage should be, there is no chance I would accept him.”

“Then you own to the desirability of affection in a marriage partner.”

“Yes, Lizzy,” said Mary, diverted, “I will confess you and Jane had the right of it.”

Elizabeth offered a smug nod.

“The question is,” said Mary, returning to the subject of Mr. Darcy, “what you mean to do now. Mr. Darcy is not Mr. Collins, and his improvement is no less than astonishing.”

“That it is.” Elizabeth sighed and returned a wan smile. “I cannot tell you what I will do because I do not know myself. Mr. Darcy has made his intention to provoke my love clear, but I have no notion of where it will lead.”

“Then that is well.”

Mary reached out and grasped Elizabeth’s hand in her free hand, squeezing it. “If you will accept my advice, Lizzy, it is to give the gentleman every opportunity to prove himself and to contemplate what you want before you decide. While you have not been unhappy at Longbourn, I know you have been lonely. Please follow your own counsel and meet Mr. Darcy intending to learn if you will be happy with him. If you do this, I am certain you will not choose amiss.”

“Thank you for your excellent advice, Mary,” replied Elizabeth with a warm smile. “I can tell you that I will follow it to the letter.”

––––––––

D ARCY’S FIRST RETURN to Netherfield Park in six years came courtesy of an invitation from the current resident, Mr. Mason, to all the gentlemen in the neighborhood. It was common among the locals in any society to gather and discuss matters of mutual concern, become better acquainted, and often drink to excess. While Darcy had only been a member of the local fraternity of gentlemen for a short time and would have preferred to avoid the event altogether, he thought it best to maintain good relations and agreed to attend. He did not think any in attendance would blame him for preferring Miss Bennet’s company to theirs.

Except, perhaps, the host of the gathering. Had Darcy seen anything of Miss Bennet’s interest or even tolerance for the man, his continual attendance on her might be a matter of anxiety. As it was, he was adept enough at reading her reactions to understand that she had no interest in him, nothing more than good manners keeping her from snapping at him. Yet Mason persisted, appearing to miss her disinterest to a shocking degree. In that, he was like Lady Catherine, who hoped without reason for years that Darcy would marry her daughter. It was also akin to Darcy himself, and perhaps more so because Darcy had never looked on Miss Elizabeth to understand if she returned his sentiments—in that , he and Mason were as two peas in a pod.

What Darcy felt upon entering Netherfield again he could not describe, for if the estate had seen some of the most consequential events of his life—though he had not the wit to recognize them at the time—he had only stayed for two months. The significant events all pertained to Miss Bennet, first during her stay when her sister had taken ill, then at the ball Bingley had hosted for the neighborhood. Given the brief nature of both, some might scoff at the notion they were so important; Darcy knew better, for Netherfield was where his attraction to Miss Bennet had blossomed to full maturity from a seedling, though he had denied it.

“Mr. Darcy,” said Sir William when Darcy entered, unable to resist acting as the master of ceremonies though it was not his house, “how good of you to join us today. As you are not of the neighborhood, I was not certain you would grace us with your presence.”

“Not at all, Sir William,” replied Darcy. “Such gatherings are common in my home neighborhood; I know not if I will add anything to your discussions, but I am happy to attend, regardless.”

“Where is your home?” asked Mason. “I may have heard of it, but I cannot recall.”

In the privacy of his thoughts, Darcy was certain Mason knew the county in which Pemberley lay, even if Darcy had not mentioned it when they had conversed on the subject before; why he would ask as if he did not know was a mystery known only to the man himself.

“In Derbyshire, near to the peaks.”

“Ah yes, I seem to recall Miss Bennet mentioning it.”

Mason turned away to speak to another gentleman, leaving Darcy to watch him with some bemusement. Darcy was near certain that Miss Bennet had mentioned no such thing, in no small part because Darcy did not think she ever said two words together to the man. There was no reason to respond, so Darcy put the matter from his mind.

For some time, Darcy mingled with the other men, and if he did not care much for their society and added little to their discussions, it was not an objectionable way to spend an afternoon. As he remembered most of these men from his previous foray in the neighborhood, there were few impertinent questions, as most recalled him and the gossip from that time.

The exception to this rule was Mason, who, Darcy suspected, was the only new resident in the neighborhood in the past twenty years—or perhaps the only resident who had purchased his estate. Most of these men had lived on their estates all their lives, inheriting it from a line of their forbears. Netherfield was the only estate that had been available for purchase in all that time, and even Breckonridge had until recently been occupied by an elderly man who had passed on. The heir lived at an estate in another county and had put it on the leasing market, hoping he would not need to bother with it. Darcy suspected he hoped someone would step forward and take it off his hands.

“What do you think of Netherfield, Mr. Darcy?” asked Mason later when they stood together.

Darcy regarded him, not recalling whether Mason knew anything of his previous residence at the estate. “I always thought it was a fine property. Six years ago, a friend of mine leased this estate, and I spent two months with him in residence here.”

“Ah, the infamous... Mr. Bingley, as I recall.” Mason snorted and lifted his glass to his lips. “Yes, I recall hearing of him. When I purchased four years ago, there were many deficiencies to attend to, for the estate was ill-managed, to say the least.”

The comment appeared calculated to provoke a response—Darcy was determined not to give him one. It also recalled to his mind that he had , in fact, spoken with Mason on the subject. The reason for Mason’s wish to canvass this information was not apparent, though Darcy suspected it had something to do with his interest in Miss Bennet.

“Bingley was new to the art, though he has improved since then. He now owns an estate in Derbyshire near to my home.”

“Does he?” asked Mason, his tone suggesting it made little difference to him. Darcy supposed that was not unexpected, considering he was unacquainted with Bingley.

“Yes. As for Netherfield, I expect that most of his mistakes concerning this property were more from neglect than anything else. Though I do not say as much to excuse my friend, his residence at Netherfield occurred at the time in his life when friends and engagements were foremost in his thoughts. We departed before Christmas, as I recall, and Bingley did not return. He gave up the lease thereafter, for he had only contracted for a single year.”

“Ah, then that must be the reason.”

As an aside of this topic, Darcy could not but recall the exact reason that Bingley had neglected the estate. Much of that business was Caroline Bingley’s doing, but Darcy himself was not innocent in the affair. Darcy might have fallen to brooding had he been alone, but he had learned to remain philosophical about the business—Darcy’s advice had proven mistaken, but he was not perfect, and he had thought at the time that he was giving it for the right reasons. Even if those reasons abounded with error, his motives at the time were the primary issue.

“Then you have some experience in the neighborhood.”

Darcy returned his attention to the other man. “A little. This neighborhood is much like any other one may find the length and breadth of England, though I do not speak to suggest I disdain those living here.”

“In truth,” said Mason, “I am little disposed to it. My uncle’s neighborhood in Wiltshire is more interesting, and the people there are higher in society.”

“I find Pemberley is the same. There are men of lower consequence living there, but there are several higher, including an earl.”

“There is one benefit of this neighborhood that does not exist anywhere else.”

The smug, knowing way he spoke raised Darcy’s hackles. When he did not respond, Mason was all too eager to continue.

“I speak of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of course. As an observant man, I am certain my attentions to her cannot have escaped your attention.”

“Not at all.”

The man appeared pleased with his gambit, though Darcy thought him a fool. Whatever uncertainty there was about Darcy’s interest in Miss Bennet, there was little indication of her interest in Mason’s overtures, and much evidence—including her testimony! —of her distaste for him.

“Then I hope you will wish me joy when the time comes, as I am certain it must soon.”

Intent upon piercing this man’s conceit, Darcy was not about to allow him to escape unscathed. “You suppose Miss Bennet has responded to your suit as you hope?”

Mason shrugged as if it did not bother him—it likely did not. “I am not displeased. She can be a little dull in company, but that does not concern me at all.”

Miss Bennet dull in company? Darcy choked back the laughter that threatened to burst from his breast, for there were few adjectives less efficacious in describing her than dull. Sparkling, brilliant, vibrant, vivacious, witty, and a whole host of others sprang to his mind, leaving him with the opinion that Mason was nothing less than a fool. It appeared he saw what he wanted to see and nothing else, a common affliction among a certain level of society—as Darcy had experience in it, he fancied he was no less than an expert on the subject!

“If you will pardon my saying it,” said Darcy, “I have never seen Miss Bennet in any situation where the term ‘dull’ would do any justice to her character.”

“It is of little matter.” Mason waved away an offensive odor, or at least that was how Darcy saw it. “She is not so foolish as to reject the proposal of an eligible man.”

It was all Darcy could do not to let out an uproarious laugh at the man’s pretension, for the conversation coupled with Mason’s blindness had elevated from amusing to hilarious. Mason was filling the role that Darcy had occupied himself to such excellent effect that it had led to a six-year estrangement from the woman he loved. The difference between them was that Darcy loved her then, loved her even more now, and had never stopped loving her. Mason, he sensed, cared nothing for her; his motivation was the greater prosperity her estate would bring him.

“As I recall,” said Darcy, “she did just that when she refused her cousin. Collins could have given her a comfortable home—Longbourn itself. I apologize for raising the subject if you were not aware of it.”

Mason’s insouciance was beginning to annoy Darcy. “Yes, I heard of her cousin’s proposal, but what of it? There is a wide difference between me and some ridiculous parson.”

“Yes, I suppose you are correct.”

“I have been courting Miss Bennet for some time now,” continued Mason, “and I expect to propose to her soon.”

“Then I wish you luck, Mr. Mason.”

Though Mason did not hear the silent addition “you will need it,” it was prominent in Darcy’s thoughts. That was why the man’s next words were so diverting.

“I thank you, Darcy, though I shall not need it. Miss Bennet will not refuse my suit.”

Thereafter they drifted apart, though Darcy spoke to no one else that day, and the company soon separated to their homes. Darcy recognized the entertainment inherent in Mason’s assertions, for it was clear he understood as little of Miss Bennet’s character as Darcy had himself. A niggling corner of his consciousness worried that Miss Bennet might feel obliged to accept his proposal, but he did not listen. If the renewal of his acquaintance with her had taught him anything, it was that Miss Bennet would not marry without affection. By her own testimony, she felt nothing for Mason stronger than exasperated tolerance.