Mary could not remember exactly when she had discovered she was plain. She did not think she had known it when, as a very little girl, she had played happily with Jane and Elizabeth, running round the garden with grass stains on her dress; or when they had huddled together before the nursery fire, warming their feet on the fender. She did not think she had known it when Mrs Hill, her mother’s housekeeper, had washed her face every morning and tied a clean pinafore over her dress. She had certainly not known it when she and her elder sisters had rushed into the kitchen on baking days, begging for a crust of warm bread which they would carry away and eat together behind the shrubbery, laughing as if they would never stop. Then, she thought, she had been happy. But by the time she was seven or eight years old, she had begun to suspect something was not quite right. She saw that her mother often looked at her with an expression she did not direct at Jane or Lizzy. It was something between irritation and puzzlement, Mary was not quite sure which, but she came to recognise it very well. A summons always followed.
‘Come here, child, and let me look at you.’
Mary would get down from her chair and walk across the drawing room to where Mrs Bennet sat, uneasy under her mother’s scrutiny. Her hair ribbons would be tweaked, her sash re-tied, her dress pulled this way and that. But whatever it was that bothered Mrs Bennet, none of her attempts to correct it ever satisfied. She pursed her lips and looked away, frustrated, speechlessly waving her daughter back to her place. Mary knew she had disappointed her mother, even if she did not yet know in what way she had fallen short.
But she was a clever girl, and she soon understood what the sighs and frowns and dismissals meant. She could not help but notice that Mrs Bennet never talked about her appearance with the pleasure with which she described her elder sisters.
‘Jane is as lovely as an angel,’ her mother often declared, regarding her eldest daughter with transparent pride. ‘It is a pleasure just to gaze at her.’
Jane would hang her head, for she was a modest girl, and compliments made her blush. She would not look at Elizabeth, who, when Mrs Bennet’s preening grew excessive, would catch her sister’s eye and try to make her laugh. Elizabeth’s own appearance was not quite so much to her mother’s taste as Jane’s. Her dark eyes and sparkling smile were too suggestive of her lively character to win Mrs Bennet’s wholehearted approval. She was too amused with the world to qualify as a true beauty; but for all her misgivings, Mrs Bennet’s appraising eye acknowledged there was something about Lizzy that appealed. While she often scolded her second daughter for the pertness of her remarks and the independence of her spirit, she did not complain of her looks.
As she grew older, Mary waited hopefully for Mrs Bennet to bestow similar words of appreciation upon her. At first, she imagined her mother’s approval would come naturally with time, that she would reach an age when she too would bask in her admiration. But even when she paid extra attention to herself, making sure that her stockings were straight, her face was clean, and her hair well brushed, still her mother had no kind word to offer her. Month after month, she waited, anxiously anticipating the moment when Mrs Bennet would find something about her to praise. Perhaps her eyes might be considered fine, or her figure graceful. Perhaps her hair might be her best feature. She did not mind which part of her Mrs Bennet thought worthy of notice; anything would do, as long as it allowed her the chance to take her place amongst her sisters in the glow of their mother’s approval.
Mary was ten when she understood this would never happen. It was a warm afternoon. Mrs Bennet was taking tea with her sister, Mrs Phillips. Jane and Lizzy had vanished at the sound of their aunt’s arrival, leaving Mary alone, perched on the sofa, twisting the ends of her hair in her hands, wishing desperately to be somewhere else. Neither her mother nor her aunt paid her any attention. Their conversation rambled on, ranging from the likelihood of Lady Lucas’s cook leaving her – ‘and just before the bottling season too’ – to the probability of the vicar’s wife being brought to bed this very week; but when Mrs Phillips dropped her voice to a whisper and leaned forward to impart a particularly choice piece of gossip, Mrs Bennet was suddenly alert to her daughter’s presence.
‘Mary, go down to the kitchen and bring up some more sugar. Take the bowl. Now, please.’
Delighted to be released, Mary lingered as long as she could on her errand, dawdling back along the hall, kicking her shoes against the flagstones to see how much dust she could raise. At the door to the morning room, she stopped to smooth down her dress when, emerging from the low murmur of conversation, she heard her own name pronounced. She knew she should declare herself – Mrs Hill had often told her that listeners never heard good about themselves – but she found it impossible to draw away.
‘I think Mary is in better looks today,’ remarked Mrs Phillips. ‘A little less pale than usual.’
Mrs Bennet sniffed. ‘It’s kind of you to say so, sister, but I’m afraid I can’t agree. For so young a girl, she has no bloom at all. Not like Jane and Lizzy. Their bloom is always very much remarked upon.’
‘Indeed, they are very pleasing,’ agreed Mrs Phillips obligingly. ‘And I doubt that Mary will ever be admired as they are. But, sister, I wonder if you aren’t rather harsh in judging her as you do? Perhaps she suffers by comparisons. If Jane and Lizzy were a little less handsome, then she might seem prettier in your eyes?’
‘I wish with all my heart you were right, but I’m afraid comparisons don’t come into it. Mary is simply very plain, and that’s that. I blame Mr Bennet’s side of the family. We Gardiners have always been remarkable for our appearance.’
Mrs Phillips topped up her tea and looked for the sugar bowl.
‘Well, I’m very sorry for the girl. It cannot be easy to be the only ugly duckling amongst so many swans.’
‘Yes, it is a great disappointment to me, and excessively bad for my nerves. But I find that once I look at my other daughters, I soon feel better. Where has she got to with the sugar?’
Mary edged into the room, her eyes on the floor. Her fingers were clenched very tightly round the sugar bowl as she placed it on the table. Her aunt smiled at her, but Mrs Bennet paid no attention as she slipped away. In the hall, her heart beat hard in her chest. She felt her mother’s words with as much force as if they had been a blow. So now she knew, she thought, as she walked upstairs. Now she understood. She was plain – like a boiled potato, a length of unbleached calico, a flat white dinner plate. She walked into her bedroom, pulled the chair towards her dressing table and placed her face as close as she could to the little mirror. The glass was old and tarnished but provided enough reflection for Mary to see herself clearly within it. A small face looked back at her, round and pale. Yes, she thought, a dinner plate. Her grey eyes, under light eyebrows, were neither large and blue like Jane’s nor dark and clever like Lizzy’s. Her features were regular enough, but they were not distinguished. Her mouth was narrow, her lips thin. There was an anxious look about her, she decided. Her face did not suggest, as Lizzy’s did, that she might break into laughter at any time. Her hair was a light brown. It was not gold and shining, as Jane’s was. There was nothing about her, she concluded, that demanded attention or that would make anyone look upon her with pleasure. Her mother was right; she neither glowed nor bloomed. For a while she stared at the mirror, still hoping to find some bright feature, some hidden asset that might redeem her. When she found nothing, she picked up the shawl that lay hanging on the back of her chair and draped it carefully over the mirror. A single tear trickled down her face which she did not trouble to wipe away.
Mary said nothing to Jane or Lizzy about what she had heard. She supposed they knew already; her plainness now seemed so obvious that she did not know how she had not seen it herself. She did not expect them to show her any sympathy. They would never understand how she felt. How could they? Their beauty was as much a part of them as an arm or a leg – it was impossible for them to imagine life without it. Under its protection, they would leap and spring and dance into their futures; she, on the other hand, would trudge stolidly forward, placing one foot in front of the other without joy or grace. She had learned from Mrs Bennet that without beauty no real and lasting happiness was attainable. It never occurred to her to question what she’d been taught.
She had always been a cautious, watchful girl; now she thought of little else but the poor impression she must make upon those around her. The high spirits that had once inspired her to play and run about with her sisters ebbed away. She no longer had the heart for it. When Jane and Lizzy romped together or raced about the garden, everyone smiled and said they looked charming; but Mary told herself that if she were to do the same, she would appear ridiculous. It did not seem fitting for her to be light-hearted. Seriousness seemed the only quality a plain girl might adopt without exposing herself to the scorn or pity of others. Gradually she became used to it, until she came to believe that it was her nature, that this solemn, solitary, awkward creature was really who she was.
She watched with sadness as Jane and Lizzy drifted steadily away from her. They gave up their attempts to include her, rebuffed by her unhappiness. Mary was not surprised. Of course they preferred each other. How could they not? It was not long before they formed a tight, impregnable partnership, shored up by shared confidences and whispered asides. Mary could hardly believe there had ever been room for another sister in their affections, let alone herself. She bore the loss of Jane philosophically. For all Jane’s sweetness, Mary had always found her a remote presence, unknowable behind her perfect face; but the gulf that had opened up between herself and Elizabeth caused her real pain. It was only as they drew apart that Mary realised how much she loved her, how much she had revelled in her lively presence. No one could make you laugh as Lizzy could, tease you into happiness, coax you into smiling at yourself with such easy charm. For a while, Mary clung on to a hope that Lizzy would be the one to save her – that she would recognise her sadness and extend her hand to help her, pulling her out of the pit of misery into which she felt she was slowly sinking. But although Lizzy sometimes looked at Mary with puzzlement, sometimes almost with regret, she neither spoke nor acted to keep her near; and soon their old closeness was nothing more than a memory.
As her elder sisters retreated from her, Mary had wondered whether she might not find a friend in one of the younger girls. When they were small, she watched them keenly, trying to see if they had inherited Jane’s and Lizzy’s beauty. She did not like to admit what it was that she hoped for. It seemed a cruel thing to wish that a chubby toddler might not grow into a fine young girl; but Mary could not help it. If either Kitty or Lydia turned out to be plain, then she might not feel so alone. Two plain sisters would understand each other. They would make common cause together, and surely, grow to be friends. It was not long before it became obvious this would not happen. By the time they were in their first proper frocks, even Mary could see that they followed not in her footsteps, but in those of Jane and Elizabeth.
‘They are handsome little things,’ declared their mother, with satisfaction. ‘Not quite the equal of Jane, but very pleasing nonetheless. Four beauties out of five is a very respectable number. I’m sure no one could have done better.’
As Kitty and Lydia grew older, Mary quickly understood that her younger sisters had as little need of her as the elder two had. Left to herself, Kitty might have weakened. She was a mild, pliable girl, eager to please. She might have been persuaded to be Mary’s friend. But the youngest Bennet daughter was determined that would not happen. Even as a child, Lydia was headstrong, bold, and wilful; and once she decided she wanted Kitty for herself, Mary was no match for her. It did not take long before Kitty was entirely in thrall to Lydia, dominated by her iron whim, obediently echoing all her opinions. Soon, Kitty had as little time for Mary as did anyone else. By the time she was fourteen, Mary knew she came first with none of her sisters. She was no one’s special friend or confidante. Neither her mother nor her father looked on her with any particular affection. In the midst of so large a family, she was utterly alone.